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Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York, 


MATERIALIST  AND  INVENTOR 


BY  JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE 


"  I  am  Pressensee.  I  stand  on  that.  Who  or  what  made  me  I 
don't  know.  I  do  not  believe  in  your  future  state,  or  your  Absolute 
6oul.  Man  and  the  worm  are  the  same.  There  is  no  life  after 
death.  Life  is  heat.  Heat  goes  and  death  comes — that  is  all  I  know 
about  it.  Witness  my  hand  and  seal, 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  &    BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 
FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1878 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1878,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE, 


i. 

I  MADE  the  personal  acquaintance  of  Pro 
fessor  Pressensee  under  somewhat  peculiar 
circumstances.  It  was  on  a  visit  to  New 
York  in  1872.  I  had  spent  the  evening  at 
the  "  Century  Club/7  the  resort  of  authors, 
artists,  and  others  of  similar  tastes.  In.  the 
throng  one  person  had  specially  attracted 
nay  attention.  He  was  a  man  of  from  forty- 
five  to  fifty,  low  of  stature,  but  broad-shoul 
dered  and  powerful.  His  head  was  large, 
and  his  long  hair,  just  touched  with  gray, 
fell  to  his  shoulders.  The  face  was  very 
striking.  Under  a  massive  and  prominent 
forehead  rolled  a  pair  of  brilliant  eyes,  cu 
rious  and  penetrating.  The  lips  were  firm, 
and  not  a  little  sarcastic  in  expression ;  his 
complexion  pale,  like  that  of  a  student  work 
ing  much  in  the  night  hours.  His  dress  was 
black,  plain,  and  unassuming;  his  manner 


985797 


8  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

brief,  "but  not  deficient  in  courtesy.  The 
lurking  sarcasm  of  the  lips  was  not  direct 
ed,  apparently,  in  the  least  degree  at  the 
amiable  centurions  around  him,  but  at  the 
world  in  general. 

The  club  meeting  broke  up  between  elev 
en  and  twelve,  and  I  set  out  to  return  to  my 
hotel,  through  the  chill  winter  night.  The 
wind  cut  to  the  bone,  and  the  streets  off  the 
main  thoroughfares  were  entirely  deserted. 
One  figure  I  did  observe,  one  or  two  hun 
dred  yards  in  front  of  me,  sturdily  tramp 
ing  along  in  the  same  direction  I  was  my 
self  pursuing.  But  this  figure  turned  a 
corner,  and  I  hurried  on  with  one  thought 
only  in  my  mind — that  nothing  could  be  so 
desirable  as  the  warmth  of  a  comfortable 
hotel,  when  I  heard  a  loud  exclamation,  and 
the  noise  of  a  struggle,  apparently  around 
the  corner  which  I  had  nearly  reached.  I 
hastened  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  and 
saw  three  men  struggling  with  a  fourth. 

A  glance  showed  me  everything.  The 
three  men  were  attempting  to  "garrote" 
the  fourth ;  and  this  fourth  personage  was 
the  one  I  had  noticed  at  the  club.  He  was 
defending  himself  against  the  ruffians  who 
had  assailed  him  with  a  vigor  which  made 
the  result  extremely  doubtful.  One  went 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  9 

down  under  a  blow  from  him  sufficient  to 
fell  an  ox  ;  and  he  had  clutched  another  of 
the  assailants  by  the  throat,  nearly  stran 
gling  him,  I  could  see,  for  the  man  stagger 
ed.  The  third  ruffian  had,  however,  slipped 
behind  him,  and  raised  a  heavy  slung-shot 
to  beat  out  his  brains.  The  man's  arm  with 
this  deadly  weapon  rose,  but  it  did  not  fall. 
I  had  reached  the  spot,  and  raising  the  flex 
ible  cane  I  carried,  cut  the  man  with  all  my 
strength  across  the  eyes,  making  the  blood 
spurt.  His  arm  sank,  he  staggered  back; 
and  in  three  seconds  all  the  assailants  had 
disappeared  in  a  side  street,  running  at  full 
speed  from  the  policemen  hastening  to  the 
spot. 

These  worthies  arrived,  as  usual,  just  a 
minute  too  late.  The  fact  did  not  seeni 
greatly  to  depress  them. 

"  What's  up  *?"  said  the  foremost. 

The  man  in  black  pointed  to  his  neck, 
where  the  impress  of  the  garroter's  clutch 
was  visible. 

"  Well,"  said  our  philosophic  friend  of  the 
police,  "that's  what  we  call  a  fox  Ute.  Did 
they  go  through  you  ?  No,  I  see  your  watch- 
chain  is  all  right.  How  manv  attacked 
you  ?» 

"  Three,"  returned  the  person  addressed, 


10  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

in  a  sarcastic  tone.  "  I  managed  two,  and 
my  friend  here  disposed  of  the  third.  It  is 
lucky  he  was  not  one  of  your  fine  metro 
politan  police.  You  arrive,  as  you  always 
arrive,  in  time  to  make  inquiries  what  has 
happened.'7 

Having  so  spoken  in  a  tone  of  great  con 
tempt,  the  stranger  turned  his  back  upon 
the  blue  guardians  of  the  public  peace,  and 
we  walked  on  side  by  side. 

"  These  blue  jays  make  one  laugh,"  he 
said,  incisively.  "They  are  an  organized 
farce — but  we  waste  time  on  them.  You 
saved  my  life — thanks,  friend." 

"I  am  not  certain,"  I  returned.  "You 
were  in  a  fair  way  to  extricate  yourself; 
but  I  am  truly  glad  to  have  come  up  so 
providentially." 

"  Providentially  ? — humph !" 

"Is  not  the  word  appropriate?  You 
must  believe  in  a  Providence." 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  But  our  conversation 
begins  as  curiously  as  our  acquaintance, 
Mr. " 

"  Presseusee  —  Professor  Pressensee,  at 
your  service,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  professor,  I  was  about  to  say  that 
as  rational  beings  we  must  believe  in  some- 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  11 

tiling  in  this  world.  That  axiom  no  doubt 
meets  with  your  approval." 

"Yes." 

"You  do  not  believe  in  an  overruling 
Providence,  you  say.  No  doubt  you  believe 
in  something  ?" 

"  I  do— in  Heat." 

The  reply  was  outre.  I  looked  at  my 
companion.  He  was  evidently  in  dead  ear 
nest. 

"I  believe  in  what  I  see  and  feel  and 
know,"  he  said.  "I  know  nothing  about 
what  you  call  Providence,  by  which  you 
doubtless  mean  a  personal  Deity." 

"Assuredly." 

"I  do  not  find  him  anywhere.  I  find 
matter,  force,  and  correlation.  But  this 
talk  is  idle.  My  throat  hurts  me  —  from 
that  rascal's  clutch — and  the  night  is  cold. 
Ough!" 

"  It  is  bitter  enough." 

"  Well,  friend,  yonder  is  my  house.  Come, 
and  let  me  send  you  to  your  residence  in  my 
coupe'.  You  will  not  ?  Then  come  and  have 
a  glass  of  wine  with  me,  and  allow  my  wife 
and  daughter  to  thank  you." 

It  was  tempting.  The  man  had  made  a 
deep  impression  upon  me.  In  his  manner, 
his  glance,  the  very  tones  of  his  voice,  there 


12  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

was  a  massive  force  of  character,  a  reserved 
power,  wliich  made  themselves  felt.  In  pres 
ence  of  this  personage,  commonplace  dis 
appeared.  Who  and  what  was  he  ?  I  had 
never  heard  of  a  Professor  Pressensee,  al 
though  I  supposed  myself  to  be  familiar 
with  the  names,  at  least,  of  all  the  savans 
of  the  city.  Was  he  simply  one  of  those 
nondescripts  who  attach  the  meaningless 
title  of  "  Professor  "  to  an  equally  meaning 
less  name?  His  whole  appearance  seemed 
to  contradict  this  theory.  There  was  abso 
lutely  nothing  of  the  charlatan  in  anything 
connected  with  him.  As  to  his  nationality, 
I  had  soon  made  up  my  opinion  upon  that 
point.  From  his  accent  he  appeared  to  be 
a  Franco-German  —  probably  a  native  of 
some  of  the  Rhine  provinces.  The  rest  was 
a  mystery — mere  vague  speculation. 

"  Come,  friend,"  he  said,  in  his  brief  voice, 
going  up  a  broad  flight  of  steps  which  we 
had  reached,  leading  to  the  front  door  of  a 
handsome  house.  I  yielded,  and  followed 
him.  Before  the  bell-stroke  had  died  away, 
the  door  was  noiselessly  opened  by  a  tall 
man-servant,  a  foreigner,  apparently,  and  I 
was  ushered  into  an  elegantly  furnished 
drawing-room,  where  two  ladies  rose  to  re 
ceive  us.  They  were  evidently  mother  and 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  13 

daughter.  The  elder  lady  was  about  thirty- 
five,  the  younger  apparently  about  sixteen. 
Both  were  dressed  plainly,  but  in  perfect 
taste,  and  received  us  with  cordial  smiles. 
A  few  words  from  my  host  informed  them 
of  our  night  adventure,  and  the  elder  lady 
held  out  her  hand  with  sudden  warmth,  and 
her  daughter  imitated  her.  In  a  moment  I . 
seemed  to  have  become  the  friend  of  the 
whole  family. 

My  attention,  however,  remained  concen 
trated,  unconsciously,  upon  my  host.  A 
great  change  had  sucldenly  taken  place  in 
him.  I  have  never  seen  in  the  human  face 
an  expression  of  such  deep  tenderness  as  in 
his  own  when  he  looked  at  the  two  ladies. 
The  eyes  melted,  the  hard  lips  relaxed,  and 
his  voice,  which  had  been  so  curt  and  vi 
brating,  grew  soft  and  caressing.  Without 
apparently  being  aware  of  the  fact — from 
the  effect,  plainly,  of  habit — the  girl  took 
her  place  in  his  lap,  and  passed  one  arm 
around  his  neck. 

"  Wine !"  said  my  host :  "  we  will  drink  to 
your  health,  friend." 

A  pressure  upon  the  bell-knob  summoned 
the  man-servant,  who  reappeared  in  a  few 
moments  with  a  silver  waiter  containing 
wine  and  glasses.  The  faces  around  me 


14  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

smiled  sweetly,  the  chandelier  poured  its 
flood  of  light  upon  the  comfortable  interior ; 
and  when,  half  an  hour  afterward,  I  sallied 
forth  again  in  the  chill  night,  I  seemed  to 
have  stepped  from  a  tropical  summer  into  a 
Siberian  winter. 

I  had  promised  to  repeat  my  visit  to  my 
host  before  leaving  the  city,  and  this  I  de 
termined  to  do  whatever  engagement  stood 
in  the  way.  The  man  had  all  at  once  be 
come  for  me  an  absorbing  problem. 


IT. 

THREE  days  afterward  I  rang  at  Professor 
Pressensee's  door,  and  sent  in  my  name — 
which  was  followed  by  a  request  that  I 
would  come  up  to  his  study,  to  which  the 
servant  conducted  me. 

The  apartment  was  on  the  third  floor,  and 
reached  by  two  long  flights  of  stairs  thick 
ly  carpeted.  On  this  carpet  the  feet  made 
no  noise.  The  room  was  in  front,  and  first 
knocking,  the  servant  opened  the  door,  and 
I  entered. 

The  spectacle  before  me  was  singular 
enough.  One  entire  side  of  the  room  was 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  15 

covered  by  books,  some  in  antique  embossed 
leather  bindings,  others  bright  and  shiniug 
from  the  press.  On  the  top  of  the  book 
cases  were  plaster  busts,  human  skulls,  and 
bunches  of  dried  plants.  On  a  table  be 
tween  the  windows  were  innumerable  sin 
gular  objects  which  seemed  to  be  machines 
in  every  stage  of  progress :  around,  in  com 
plete  confusion,  lay  running -bands,  cog 
wheels,  disks  of  metal,  screws,  and  tools. 
On  one  end  of  the  table  was  a  powerful  vol 
taic  battery,  and  near  it  an  alembic  which 
my  host  seemed  to  have  been  busy  at,  for 
the  whole  apartment  was  pervaded  by  pun 
gent  fumes. 

Professor  Pressensee  advanced  to  meet 
me,  holding  out  his  hand.  His  face  wore 
its  habitual  expression  of  amiable  sarcasm. 
Pointing  to  a  chair,  and  seating  himself  iu 
one  opposite  to  it,  he  said,  in  his  brief,  inci 
sive  voice, 

"  Welcome,  friend.  Something  told  mo 
you  would  come  to-day.  To  employ  an  ab 
surd  phrase,  I  had  a  presentiment  of  it." 

"Then  you  do  not  believe  in  presenti 
ments  ?"  I  said,  sitting  down.  "  I  cannot  say 
that  I  fully  believe  in  them  myself — and  yet 
I  have  heard  stories  of  such  fore  warnings 
which  nearly  stagger  me." 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


16  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

"  All  bosh !"  said  my  host,  with  a  sarcastic 
growl ;  "  the  word  is  good  English,  and  ex- 
pressive.  Matter  has  its  presentiments — the 
barometer  has  a  presentiment  of  rain.  There 
is  no  foreshadowing  with  the  immaterial 
essence — the  spirit.  I  use  the  jargon  of  the 
world,  since  there  is  no  spirit." 

My  host  seemed  to  invite  a  collision  of  in 
tellect.  With  an  uneasy  consciousness  that 
I  was  overmatched,  I  said : 

"No  immaterial  essence?  No  spirit? 
Then  you  do  not  believe  in  that,  any  more 
than  in  Providence  —  a  personal  Deity. 
What  remains  ?" 

"  Matter  and  force." 

"Force?" 

"  Call  it  what  you  choose — all  is  jargon ! 
jargon !  I  call  it  Heat,  from  which  all  things 
originate." 

"  But  the  origin  of  Heat  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"Well,  that  is  candid,  at  least.  You  are 
a  pantheist  ?" 

"Yes,  without  the  theos — there  is  no  God 
anywhere.  I  say  there  is  Heat,  which  made 
the  worlds,  gives  law  to  matter,  is  stored  up 
in  the  coal-beds,  transformed  into  motion, 
and  retransformed  into  itself.  I  see  and  feel 
this — I  do  not  see  or  feel  your  <  personal 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  17 

Deity.'  Heat  warms  or  burns  me,  guides 
the  worlds  in  their  course,  makes  me  think 
even ;  and  the  proof  is  that  I  have  nearly 
found  my  psychometer." 

"Your  psychometer  T '  I  said,  full  of  sud 
den  curiosity. 

"Yes — my  machine  to  ascertain  and  re 
cord  the  thought  that  is  passing  through  a 
human  brain.  I  touch  on  the  discovery. 
The  idea  is  nearly,  I  might  say  wholly,  found. 
Once  found,  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  rest 
is  a  trifle — a  mere  mechanical  difficulty  easy 
to  surmount." 

I  looked  at  the  speaker  with  unaffected 
astonishment.  Was  he  in  earnest,  or  only 
indulging  in  grim  jest?  Was  he  sane? 
Could  it  be  possible  that  he  seriously  be 
lieved  in  his  ability  to  invent  a  machine — a 
thing  of  wood  and  metal — which,  to  employ 
his  own  phrase,  would  enable  him  to  "  ascer 
tain  and  record"  the  secret  thoughts  of  the 
soul  of  a  human  being?  The  very  idea 
seemed  monstrous — the  conception  of  a 
madman.  And  yet,  if  any  reliance  could  be 
placed  upon  outward  appearances,  this  man 
was  no  more  insane  than  myself.  I  will  add 
that  neither  in  these  first  days  of  our  ac 
quaintance  nor  at  any  other  time  did  I  find 
the  least  reason  to  suspect  him  of  unsound- 
2 


18  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

ness  of  mind.  Of  fearfully  material  views, 
but  vast  intellect,  his  brain,  as  far  as  I  could 
(ever  perceive,  was  as  sound  as  heart  of  oak, 
and  reached  its  conclusions  with  a  frightful 
logic. 

Professor  Pressensee  leaned  back  in  his 
chair.  He  was  evidently  in  the  mood  to 
talk. 

"I  see  all  this  surprises  you,"  he  said  in 
the  same  tone  of  voice,  which  I  can  find  no 
better  words  to  describe  than  "brief  and  in 
cisive;  "but  all  things  are  relative.  The 
working  of  a  steam-engine  dragging  half  a 
mile  of  railway  carriages  would  have  aston 
ished  the  Greek  philosophers;  they  were 
untrained  in  the  science  of  the  properties 
of  matter.  Heat — the  primum  mobile  effect 
ing  this  small  wonder  as  it  effects  ten  thou 
sand  immense  wonders  —  was  unknown  to 
them  save  as  a  warmth-producer.  You,  liv 
ing  in  the  nineteenth  century,  have  your  sur 
prises  too,  unless  you  are  a  student.  You 
doubt  the  feasibility  of  my  psychometer; 
you  would  not  believe  in  my  phonometer  if 
the  idea  had  not  been  found — the  machine 
perfected." 

"  Your  phonometer  ?" 

"To  measure  and  record  the  vibrations 
of  the  atmosphere,  which  men  call  Sound — 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  19 

from  the  thunder  of  Niagara  to  the  twitter 
of  the  Lird  going  to  sleep  at  sunset  in  the 
foliage." 

"  To  record  this,  do  you  say  ?" 

"Certainly:  a  mechanical  record  as  ma 
terial  as  the  impress  of  a  die  upon  any  yield 
ing  surface — a  record  that  remains." 

"  It  is  impossible." 

"  It  is  possible,  since  the  mechanism  is  in 
vented,  constructed,  and  produces  the  re 
sult." 

"You  record  all  sounds — precisely  as  they 
are  uttered  ?" 

"Yes." 

"A  record  that  remains?" 

"  That  remains." 

''  The  human  voice  ?" 

"Certainly  the  human  voice — the  exact 
tones  of  it — of  each  person  who  speaks." 

"And  this  record  is  permanent?  The 
tones  may  be  reproduced  ?" 

"Easily;  and  as  to  the  record,  it  is  as 
permanent  as  matter.  Let  us  say  a  thou 
sand  years — ten  thousand,  if  you  wish — it 
will  last  that  time." 

"  So  that  the  person  whose  words,  voice, 
tones,  are  recorded — if  this  person  dies,  the 
same  voice  speaks  to  you  in  the  very  same 
tone  years  afterward  ?" 


20  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

"A  thousand — many  thousands  of  years, 
if  you  live  so  long.  If  the  Greeks  had 
found  the  secret,  Helen  of  Troy  and  Achilles 
might  speak  to  you  in  this  room,  at  this 
moment ;  you  might  hear  Paul  preach,  Cic 
ero  harangue,  and  Caesar's  voice  exclaim  Et 
to,  Brute!" 

I  looked  at  the  cool  and  unexcited  speaker. 

"  Absurd,  laughable,  is  it  not  ?"  he  said, 
"to  think  that  a  dead  man's  very  voice — 
or  a  dead  woman's — should  speak  to  you  as 
they  spoke  in  the  very  flesh  ?" 

"It  is  frightful!'7!  said,  with  something 
like  a  shudder. 

"It  strikes  me  as  a  good  farce,"  said  Pro 
fessor  Pressensee. 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  I  do  not — can 
scarcely  credit,  that  is — such  a  marvel." 

"  It  is  no  marvel.  It  is  as  simple  as  a 
child's  toy.  You  pull  a  string,  and  the  toy 
man  dances ;  I  fit  a  metal  disk  to  a  needle, 
and  my  wonder  is  accomplished." 

The  professor  quietly  rose. 

"  These  things  are  my  amusement,"  he 
said.  "  I  do  not  sell  them,  as  I  have  all  the 
money  I  want.  Look !" 

He  went  to  a  small  table  in  the  corner 
and  raised  a  cloth.  I  was  beside  him,  and 
looked.  What  I  saw  was  a  small  machine 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  21 

consisting  of  two  uprights,  on  one  of  \vliich 
was  a  circular  concave  disk,  of  ebony,  ap 
parently.  The  other,  rising  higher,  was 
traversed  vertically  by  a  narrow  strip  of 
what  resembled  thick  gold-leaf. 

"  I  will  show  you  my  toy,"  said  Professor 
Pressensee,  coolly,  "  and  you  shall  talk  to  it. 
I  may  outlive  you — who  knows?  Then  I 
shall  at  least  have  the  pleasure  of  your  con 
versation  at  any  time." 

He  wound  up  some  machinery  resembling 
that  of  a  clock,  and  the  strip  of  metallic  pa 
per  which  was  connected  with  it  began  to 
move  steadily  over  the  face  of  the  taller  up 
right. 

"Ready?"  said  Professor  Pressensee. 
"Place  your  mouth  here,  opposite  this  con 
cave,  and  utter  what  you  wish  to  be  recorded." 

He  spoke  with  the  most  negligent  and 
matter-of-fact  air  conceivable,  but  I  could 
not  divest  myself  of  the  weird  impression 
produced  by  the  man  and  his  surroundings. 
His  broad  and  powerful  frame,  his  eyes  roll 
ing  under  their  bushy  brows,  the  covert 
sarcasm  of  his  careless  voice,  and  his  strange 
invention,  all  produced  a  singular  effect.  I 
would  test  his  wonderful  machine ;  but  what 
should  I  say  to  it?  I  was  not  in  a  mood 
to  whisper  to  it  some  inane  jest ;  I  was  in- 


22  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

deed  the  farthest  possible  from  mirth.  Re 
volted  by  the  fearful  materialism  of  the  in 
ventor,  I  placed  my  mouth  as  he  directed, 
and  said,  deliberately, 

"You  assert,  Professor  Pressensee,  that 
there  is  no  personal  Deity — that  God  is  mat 
ter,  and  matter  is  God ;  and  Heat  is  the  per 
sistent  Force  creating  all  things.  You  ut 
ter  a  philosophic  heresy.  Behind  Heat  is 
Law,  behind  Law  is  the  Absolute :  this  Ab 
solute  is  the  central  Soul  of  the  universe, 
in  whose  spiritual  image  you  and  I  are 
made — the  living  God — before  whom  we 
will  stand,  with  all  human  beings  we  have 
loved  or  hated,  to  answer  for  the  deeds  done 
in  the  body." 

As  I  uttered  these  words  the  metallic 
slip  continued  to  move  over  the  face  of  the 
upright,  descending  through  a  narrow  slit 
in  the  table.  As  I  ended,  the  professor  took 
my  place,  and  said  to  the  instrument, 

"I  am  Pressensee.  I  stand  on  that. 
Who  or  what  made  me  I  don't  know.  I  do 
not  believe  in  your  future  state  or  your  Ab 
solute  Soul.  Man  and  the  worm  are  the 
same.  There  is  no  life  after  death.  Life  is 
Heat.  Heat  goes,  and  Death  comes;  that 
is  all  I  know  about  it.  Witness  my  hand 
and  seal.  Presseusee." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  23 

He  touched  the  clock-work,  and  the 
movement  of  the  metallic  slip  stopped. 
Then,  reaching  beneath  the  table,  he  tore 
the  slip  in  two  and  held  it  up.  I  could  see 
nothing  upon  it  but  a  long  line  of  very  mi 
nute  punctures,  as  though  made  by  a  small 
needle. 

"  Here  is  the  document,"  said  the  profess 
or.  "It  is  destructible,  I  grant,  but  you 
have  only  to  electrotype  it,  the  work  of  a 
few  moments,  and  it  will  outlast  the  Pyra 
mids." 

I  looked  at  it  with  absorbing  curiosity, 
and  said, 

"  It  is  recorded,  you  say :  now  for  the  test." 

"  Very  true — you  are  not  yet  convinced. 
Here  is  the  magician"  —  he  pointed  to  a 
small  needle  behind  the  disk  on  the  upright 
— "  and  he  is  going  to  talk  to  you." 

As  he  spoke  he  readjusted  the  metallic 
slip  in  its  former  position,  and  then  pro 
duced  from  a  shelf  a  plaster  cast  of  a  hu 
man  head,  colored  to  represent  life,  with  the 
lips  slightly  parted. 

"  The  human  voice  is  modified  by  the  con 
formation  of  the  mouth,"  he  said ;  "  hence, 
to  render  the  intonation  accurate,  I  supply 
the  mouth." 

He  fixed  the  head  upon  the  disk,  and  re- 


24  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

leased  the  spring  controlling  the  clock-work. 
At  the  first  sounds  I  nearly  recoiled.  This 
thing  of  wood  and  metal  was  speaking,  and 
speaking  through  the  lips  of  the  plaster  head 
in  my  own  voice  to  the  minutest  peculiari 
ties!  There  was  no  diminution  in  the  vol 
ume,  no  departure  from  the  exactest  repro 
duction  of  my  words,  in  my  own  voice. — 
"Behind  Heat  is  Law,  behind  Law  is  the  Abso 
lute:  this  Absolute  is  the  central  Soul  of  the 
universe,  in  whose  spiritual  image  you  and  I  are 
made." — The  words  rang  out,  clear,  sonorous, 
earnest,  from  the  lips  of  the  plaster  head, 
just  as  I  had  uttered  them.  The  machine 
was  silent  then  for  a  moment ;  nothing  was 
heard  but  the  low  whir  of  the  clock-work. 
Then  it  recommenced — this  time  in  the  curt, 
half-defiant  tones  of  the  professor — "  I  am 
Pressensee.  I  stand  on  that.  Who  or  what 
made  me  I  don't  know.  I  do  not  believe  in  your 
future  state  or  your  Absolute  Soul " — and  so  to 
the  end  of  his  speech :  "  Heat  goes  and  Death 
comes — that  is  all  I  know  about  it.  Witness  my 
hand  and  seal.  Pressensee." 

A  sudden  dizziness  came  over  me.  There 
was  something  weird  and  fearful  in  this 
toy,  as  its  inventor  called  it.  I  had  come  to 
associate  with  it  sombre  thoughts  ;  through 
that  wood  and  metal,  I  said  to  myself,  the 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  25 

dead  spoke  again  as  they  had  spokeii  in  the 
flesh.  There  was  no  longer  any  room  for 
doubt.  The  staring  human  head  hefore  me 
had  spoken  to  me  in  my  very  voice  ! 

"  An  ingenious  little  contrivance,  eh  ?"  said 
Professor  Pressensee,  stopping  the  clock 
work,  and  throwing  the  cloth  again  over 
the  machine:  "it  occurred  to  me  one  morn 
ing  as  I  was  smoking  my  meerschaum,  and 
ought  to  have  occurred  to  somebody  years 
ago.  It  is  astonishing  how  stupid  mankind 
is.  Vibration  follows  the  impact  of  the  air 
wave :  to  record  these  vibrations  was  the 
simplest  of  mechanical  contrivances;  and 
here  the  world  has  waited  six  thousand  or 
six  million  years — as  you  adopt  the  remote 
or  recent  theory  as  to  the  Glacial  Period 
and  the  origin  of  man— until  Presseusee,  the 
idler,  has  discovered  it  !" 

"  It  is  wonderful !"  I  said. 

"  Relatively,  perhaps,'7  said  my  host,  in 
differently  ;  "  nothing  is  absolutely  wonder 
ful.  Alpha  Centauri  is  200,000  times  the 
distance  of  the  earth  from  the  sun,  and  that 
is  93,000,000  of  miles.  An  express  train 
travelling  at  fifty  miles  an  hour  would  take 
40,000,000  of  years  to  make  the  journey. 
Sirius  is  1,000,000  times  the  distance  to  the 
sun,  and  Canopus  is  so  remote  that  even  the 


26  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

annual  movement  of  the  earth  shows  no  dis 
placement  in  its  position.  Is  all  this  won 
derful  ?  Not  at  all.  Size  and  distance  are 
nothing  ;  they  are  mere  incidents.  The  fault 
is  in  our  wretched  eyes  and  small  brains. 
Force  and  matter  know  nothing  of  them. 
Sinus  and  the  grain  of  sand  are  tile  same. 
Heat  is  the  motor  of  the  universe.  You 
have  only  to  get  enough  of  it." 

Professor  Presseusee  lit  an  enormous  meer 
schaum,  and  began  to  puff  out  clouds  of 
smoke. 

"  I  am  growing  weary  of  these  things," 
he  said ;  "  I  believe  I  will  travel.  I  was  up 
nearly  all  night  at  that  wretched  psychom- 
eter,  which  still  puzzles  me,  though  I'm  cer 
tain  I  have  the  idea." 

I  looked  at  him  with  fixed  attention. 

"Your  mind-reading  machine?" 

"  The  same.  Like  the  one  just  shown  you, 
the  principle  is  purely  mechanical.  Brain 
action — thought — produces  Heat.  The  de 
gree,  character,  idiosyncrasy  of  this  peculiar 
brain-heat  follows,  and  is  controlled  by  the 
phrenological  development  and  expansion 
of  each  organ  of  the  skull;  so  that — just 
as —  But  I  should  only  muddle  the  subject. 
The  machine  is  not  constructed  —  that  it 
will  be,  I  knoiv." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  27 

"  You  expect  to  read  my  thoughts  ?"  • 

"  I  will  read  your  thoughts." 

"  An  electric  current  will  be  employed  V 

He  looked  at  me  keenly. 

"Ah!  you  know  that?  Yes.  But  I  dis 
like  to  speak  of  these  indigestoe.  One  day  I 
will  show  you  the  psychometer  as  I  have 
shown  you  the  phonometer.  You  are  right. 
The  electric  current  is  the  wonder  of  the  uni 
verse,  if  there  be  any  wonders.  It  is  little 
to  say  that  through  its  agency  a  man  may 
speak — with  his  actual  voice — to  another 
man  at  the  antipodes,  and  his  voice  be  heard 
clearly.  The  principle  is  found;  I  shall 
soon  construct  that  machine.  What  is  as 
certain  is,  that  sooner  or  later — soon,  I  be 
lieve — this  wronderful  electric  current  will 
enable  us  to  transmit  messages  to  other 
worlds,  if  they  are  inhabited,  of  which  I 
know  nothing.  I  should  give  my  miud  to 
that,  but  I  am  bemired  in  this  miserable 
psychometer,  which  will  never  be  of  any 
use  to  anybody.  What  do  I  care  to  read 
men's  thoughts  ?  They  are  a  poor  set,  to 
my  thinking,  however  you  take  them. 
Machiavelli  might  value  the  invention  if 
ho  still  lived ;  but  he,  body  and  brain  too, 
has  turned  to  dust  sometime  since !  Still,  I 
work  at  the  pestiferous  thing ;  I  will  never 


28  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

rest  until  I  make  the  machine.  And  now 
all  this  wearies  me,  and  you  too,  no  doubt. 
Let  us  get  away  from  this  den,  and  go  and 
see  the  ladies." 

The  professor  rose  and  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  big  meerschaum  pipe.  He  then  led 
the  way,  with  his  sturdy  tramp,  to  the  draw 
ing-room  on  the  first  floor,  where  his  wife 
and  daughter  -were  seated  by  a  cheerful  coal 
fire  in  an  open  grate. 


III. 

MOTHER  and  daughter  rose  to  receive  us, 
cordially  offering  me  their  hands.  In  a  mo 
ment  we  were  seated  by  the  fire,  and  the 
professor,  after  his  wont,  soon  had  his  daugh 
ter  perched  upon  his  knee. 

As  before,  his  face  had  undergone  a  sud 
den  transformation :  his  sarcastic  glance  had 
softened :  the  surly  cynic  had  given  place 
to  the  tender  husband  and  father.  His  ex 
pression  was  exquisitely  mild  and  gentle — 
the  reflection,  one  would  have  said,  of  that 
upon  the  pretty  young  face  of  his  daughter, 
who  pushed  back  her  blonde  hair,  and  look 
ed  at  him,  smiling. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  29 

"  Well,  ma  mignon"  he  said,  in  a  caressing 
voice,  "what  is  that  handsome  book  you 
were  reading  ?" 

" Tennyson,  papa,"  she  replied;  "but  I 
cannot  understand  it." 

"  Not  understand  it  ?  The  plainest  writ 
ing  in  the  world,  petite.  Listen : 

" '  O  plump  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
How  goes  the  time  ?    'T  is  five  o'clock. 
Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port !'  " 

"Not  understand  that  sort  of  writing? 
Really  your  education  has  been  neglected, 
mignon" 

"You  dear  old  papa!"  exclaimed  the  girl, 
laughing,  "  I  was  not  reading  that.  Here  is 
what  puzzled  me." 

She  pointed  with  the  forefinger  of  her 
pretty  little  hand  to  a  page  of  the  gilt-bound 
volume  which  she  held,  and  read  : 

"  The  sun,  the  moon,  the  star?,  the  seas,  the  hills  and 

the  plains- 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who 
reigns?" 

"  What  does  that  mean,  papa?" 
"  Humph !   all  moonshine,"  said  the  pro 
fessor. 

"And  this  too,"  added  the  girl,  reading 
from  the  volume : 


30  PHOFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"Speak  to  Him  thou,  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with 

Spirit  can  meet; 

Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands 
and  feet. 

"  God  is  law,  say  the  wige,  O  Soul,  And  let  us  rejoice ; 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law,  the  thunder  is  yet  His 
voice." 

The  girl  paused,  and  looked  thoughtful,  as 
she  half  closed  the  book. 

"  I  think  I  understand  that/'  she  said,  ab 
sently. 

I  glanced  at  Professor  Pressensee,  for, 
strangely  enough,  the  verses  she  had  read 
touched  directly  upon  the  topic  we  had  been 
discussing.  What  would  be  the  reply  of  the 
materialist  ?  He  caught  ray  look,  and  cov 
ertly  held  up  his  finger,  as  though  warning; 
me  to  be  silent. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said,  with  an. 
easy  air,  "  the  meaning,  as  you  say,  ma  petite, 
is  perfectly  plain.  A  great  poet !  What  a 
fine  figure  King  Arthur  is!  And  then  the 
'  lily  maid  of  Astolat,'  and  the  rest !  A  very 
great  poet !  But  come,  shut  up  Mr.  Tenny 
son,  and  go  play  me  a  waltz." 

It  was  perfectly  plain  to  me  that  Professor 
Pressensee  meant  to  avoid  any  discussion  of 
"The  Higher  Pantheism"  of  the  poet.  Had 
he  concealed  from  his  wife  and  daughter  his 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  31 

fearful  materialism  ?  I  afterward  discover 
ed  that  lie  had  done  so  most  carefully. 

The  young  lady  went  to  the  piano  aud 
played  a  gay  waltz,  which  the  professor  kept 
time  to  with  his  extended  arm  in  the  most 
grotesque  manner,  grasping,  one  would  have 
said,  an  imaginary  baton.  His  face  glowed, 
his  eyes  sparkled,  and  when  the  waltz  ended 
he  cried, 

"  Good !  you  feel  what  you  play,  mignonne. 
Now  for  an  air  from  one  of  your  favorite 
operas." 

The  girl  sang  as  exquisitely  as  she  played ; 
the  sweet  young  voice  touched  the  heart, 
and  I  fancied  I  saw  a  sudden  moisture  in  the 
professor's  eyes. 

"  Good,  very  good !"  he  said,  as  she  rose. 
"  There  is  nothing  like  Verdi,  much  as  they 
abuse  him.  Opera  is  one  of  the  few  things 
that  move  me.  Do  you  like  '  Faust  T 1J  he 
said,  turning  to  me.  "  Yes  ?  Let  us,  then, 
go  to-morrow.  Shall  it  be  so  ?" 

I  assented  at  once.  I  had  formed  the  reso 
lution  to  see  as  much  of  this  singular  man 
as  possible  during  my  stay  in  New  York. 

"  Good !"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  will  accept 
a  seat  in  my  box.  You  will  go  too,  Mar 
guerite?"  he  added,  looking  at  his  wife  with 
the  fondest  affection. 


32  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  returning  his  glance; 
"  you  know  I  am  quite  as  young  in  my  feel 
ings  as  Marie !" 

"You  are  a  child,  a  babe,  my  big  petite!" 
cried  the  delighted  professor.  "But  for  the 
presence  of  company  I  should  rise  and  be 
stow  a  salute  upon  you,  madame.  Was  there 
ever  a  dry  old  savant  who  had  two  such 
roses  blooming  in  his  parterre !  Vive  lajoie! 
Let  us  embrace,  ma  mignonne !"  he  added  to 
the  laughing  girl.  And  the  fresh  young 
cheek  was  drawn  close  to  his  own  in  the 
prettiest  of  groups  imaginable. 

The  whole  little  interior  quite  charmed 
me.  All  was  simple,  natural,  and  unconven 
tional.  The  fondness  of  each  for  the  other 
displayed  itself  in  the  most  unreserved  man 
ner  ;  and  the  contrast  betweeu  the  profess 
ors  gentleness  in  presence  of  his  wife  and 
daughter,  and  his  sarcastic  abruptness  in  his 
den  up  -  stairs,  was  inexpressibly  piquant. 
The  man  had  become  more  than  ever  a  study 
to  me,  and  I  listened  to  every  word  he  utter 
ed  with  the  closest  attention.  He  gave  free 
rein  to  every  phantasy  now — laughed,  jest 
ed,  made  grimaces  for  the  general  amuse 
ment,  and  was  evidently  enjoying  himself 
to  the  top  of  his  bent,  when  the  stroke  of 
the  door  bell  resounded,  and  a  few  moments 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  33 

afterward  a  young  gentleman  entered,  bow 
ing. 

The  appearance  of  the  visitor  was  ex 
tremely  prepossessing.  He  was  about  twen 
ty-one,  tall,  graceful,  and  with  a  modesty 
and  earnestness  of  manner  which  struck  me. 
He  came  forward  with  a  slight  color  in  his 
face,  and  this  I  thought  I  saw  reflected  in. 
the  cheeks  of  the  girl,  who  had  left  her  fa 
ther's  lap  and  seated  herself  in  an  arm-chair 
near  her  mother. 

The  young  gentleman  was  introduced  to 
me  as  Mr.  Alford.  General  conversation  en 
sued,  and  iii  half  an  hour  he  took  his  de 
parture.  As  he  disappeared  the  professor 
drew  a  long  breath.  During  the  entire  vis 
it  an  incubus  seemed  to  rest  upon  him.  All 
his  gayety  had  vanished — he  almost  scowled. 

What  did  this  signify  ? 

I  soon  rose  in  my  turn,  bade  the  ladies 
good-morning,  and  was  accompanied  to  the 
door  by  the  professor. 

"  To-morrow  evening,  you  will  remember, 
friend,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  expect  you." 

"  I  will  not  fail ;  but  is  there  room  in  your 
box?  This  young  gentleman,  perhaps — he 
seems  to  be  a  friend  of  Miss  Presseusee." 

"A  friend  of  Marie's?"  growled  the  pro 
fessor.     "As  you  please." 
3 


34  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"He  seems  to  be  an  attractive  young  gen 
tleman.  Observe  that  I  am  not  prying  into 
what  does  not  concern  me,  my  dear  profess 
or—" 

"  There  is  no  prying ;  I  have  no  secrets. 
To  be  plain,  this  young  man  is  my  child's 
suitor." 

"And  you  object?  Your  manner  seems 
to  say  that." 

"  Humph !"  grunted  the  professor.  "  Well, 
yes." 

This  somewhat  surprised  me,  as  young 
Mr.  Alford  had  made  a  very  agreeable  im 
pression  upon  me  by  his  modest  and  manly 
air,  and  I  said,  unconsciously, 

"His  means  are  probably  not  such  as  to 
warrant  him  in  marrying  ?" 

The  professor  shook  his  head. 

"He  is  said  to  be  wealthy;  my  objections 
to  his  attentions  rest  on  another  ground. 
But  this  would  not  interest  you,  friend." 

It  would  have  interested  me  greatly,  but 
I  felt  that  any  farther  reference  to  the  sub 
ject  would  be  an  intrusion.  I  therefore  ex 
changed  a  grasp  of  the  hand  with  the  pro 
fessor,  bade  him  good -night,  aud  returned 
to  my  hotel,  with  a  sentiment  of  decided 
sympathy  for  the  youthful  lovers — for  such 
they  appeared  to  be. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 


IV. 

I  ATTENDED  the  performance  of  the  opera 
of  "Faust"  with  Professor  Pressensee  and 
his  family  on  the  next  evening,  and  about 
midnight — the  ladies  having  retired— was 
seated  opposite  him  in  his  study,  or  uden," 
as  he  styled  it,  in  the  third  story,  convers 
ing.  On  the  table  was  a  waiter  containing 
wine  and  biscuits.  The  professor  was  lean 
ing  back,  with  his  sturdy  legs  extended  in 
front  of  him,  smoking  his  huge  meerschaum, 
and  gazing  into  the  coal  fire,  whose  genial 
warmth  was  in  most  agreeable  contrast  with 
the  bitter  cold  outside. 

"That  legend  of  Faust  is  a  curious  one!" 
he  growled,  in  his  deep  voice,  "  and  full  of 
dramatic  capabilities.  No  wonder  Goethe 
selected  it  for  his  poem.  A  very  great  man 
Goethe.  Not  much  heart,  perhaps,  but  a 
vast  brain — a  capacity  for  treading  on  the 
verges  of  the  unknown  world  that  is  won 
derful." 

"  The  unknown  world  ?" 

"  Mephistopheles,"  said  Professor  Pressen- 


36  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

see,  succinctly.  "If  there  was  a  devil,  lie 
would  be  like  that." 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  there  is  no  such 
being  as  Satan  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  mean  to  say  it." 

"And  consequently  no  hell  where  he 
rules  ?" 

"A  mere  figment  of  the  imagination," 
growled  Professor  Pressensee.  "  It  really  is 
astonishing  what  children  men  are.  They 
follow  every  will-o'-the-wisp  as  a  guiding 
light.  They  are  gravely  discussing  now,  I 
see,  whether  hell  is  a  place  of  eternal  pun 
ishment  or  not.  Ninnies!  The  whole  idea, 
of  such  a  bottomless  pit  only  exists  in  their 
imaginations !" 

The  professor  puffed  out  clouds  of  smoke. 

"Your  old  Hebrew  legends  have  foisted 
the  idea  upon  you,"  he  added,  disdainfully, 
"and  what  you  call  your  New  Testament 
has  bolstered  it  up.  There  is  no  hell,  no 
devil,  no  atonement,  no  Deity,  I  say  j  there 
is  matter  and  force." 

I  was  quite  revolted  by  such  gross  ma 
terialism,  and  said,  abruptly, 

"  Do  you  expect  to  die  at  any  time,  Pro 
fessor  Presseusee  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  expect  to  die.  It  is  the  law 
of  the  universe." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  37 


"Well,  where  do  you  presume  you 
go?" 

"  Go  ?  Nowhere.  Where  does  the  stalk 
of  corn  go  when  it  shrivels,  falls,  arid  de 
cays  ?  Its  component  parts  go  into  the 
earth  and  the  air.  It  no  longer  exists." 

"And  so  man,  when  he  dies,  you  would 
say—" 

"Remerges  into  matter  from  whence  he 
came.  Yes,  that  is  what  I  mean.  Human 
remains  fertilize  the  earth.  The  grass,  the 
flower,  the  stalk  of  grain,  grow  over  them 
lustily.  You  were  a  soul,  as  the  cant  is  ; 
you  turn  to  a  thistle  or  a  weed." 

"And  the  Soul?" 

"  There  never  was  any  such  thing.  There 
was  Heat,  which  is  Force.  The  Heat  goes, 
as  I  said,  and  your  boasted  Soul  with  it  — 
which  never  had  any  existence," 

"  Good  heavens,  Professor  Pressensee  !"  I 
exclaimed,  "  can  a  man  of  your  profound  in 
tellect  come  to  such  shocking,  such  absurd 
conclusions  ?  Evolution  denies  Revelation  ; 
but  even  that  admits  the  existence  of  the 
human  Soul." 

"  Granted.  The  development  theory  stops 
half-way.  I  believe  in  the  theory,  of  course 
—  it  is  demonstrated.  What  I  complain  of 
in  its  advocates  is  the  cowardice  which  ar- 


38  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

rests  them  in  their  train  of  logic.  They 
stumble  or  draw  back  on  the  very  thresh 
old.  If  there  is  in  tho  universe  what  yon 
call  Soul,  there  is  Deity ;  for  Soul,  in  your 
definition,  must  be  a  spark,  an  emanation — 
call  it  what  yon  choose — of  the  Divine  Es 
sence.  You  see  I  use  the  jargon  of  the 
world.  It  is  pure  jargon,  since  there  is  no 
divine  essence ;  there  is  force,  force,  force !" 

"  Well,  the  origin  of  this  force  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  have  said  that  before." 

"Material  force?" 

"Certainly.  What  other  can  we  con 
ceive  of?" 

"  So  that  love,  gratitude,  heroism,  charity, 
devotion  to  noble  aims,  all  are  fancies  ?" 

"  They  are  facts." 

"  And  they  originate  in — " 

"  Heat,"  said  Professor  Pressensee,  coolly. 

As  he  uttered  the  words  a  sudden  glare 
was  visible  in  the  apartment.  I  started, 
and  looked  toward  the  windows.  They 
were  squares  of  red  light,  and,  hastening  to 
one  of  them,  I  peered  out  into  the  night. 
The  house  immediately  opposite  that  of 
Professor  Pressensee  was  on  fire ;  the  flames 
were  already  darting  from  the  windows,  and 
through  the  crowd  which  had  at  once  gath 
ered  rushed  the  steam  fire-engines,  drawn 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  39 

by  their  powerful  horses,  whose  heavy  iron 
hoofs  clashed  upon  the  paved  street. 

From  our  elevated  perch  we  had  a  full 
view  of  all.  The  flames  had  evideotly  gain 
ed  terrible  headway  before  the  discovery 
was  made  that  the  house  was  on  fire.  The 
lateness  of  the  hour  was  probably  the  cause 
of  this ;  and  affairs  were  plainly  critical  for 
the  inmates.  Half -clothed  figures  passed 
across  the  windows  like  shadows,  in  the 
midst  of  streams  of  water  poured  upward 
from  the  engines.  The  front  door  of  the 
house  had  been  driven  in,  but  the  foremost 
firemen  recoiled.  Flame  dashed  in  their 
faces.  Then  the  crowd  surged  back,  and 
ladders  rose  to  the  second  story.  Up  these 
the  firemen  ran,  axes  in  hand,  and  the  sashes 
fell  under  their  heavy  blows.  One  of  the 
men  leaped  in  and  dragged  out  an  old  man, 
who  was  caught  by  those  behind  and  hur 
ried  to  the  grouud.  As  he  was  drawn 
through  the  window  a  dense,  suffocating 
smoke  followed,  and  the  figure  of  the  fire 
man  within  disappeared.  Then  a  shout 
came  up  from  the  crowd.  He  had  reappear 
ed,  holding  in  his  arms  the  half -clothed 
form  of  a  woman,  who  was  passed  down  the 
ladder,  the  fireman  who  had  rescued  her  fol 
lowing  rapidly. 


40  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"A  brave  fellow — brave!"  said  Professor 
Pressensee,  with  a  glowing  face.  "Achilles 
and  Bayard  were  nobodies:  here  is  your 
bra/eel" 

"What  is  the  matter  yonder?"  I  said, 
pointing  to  the  crowd  which  ringed  the 
half-clothed  woman,  leaving  a  space  around 
her  free.  She  was  standing  with  hands 
clasped  above  her  head,  tottering  to  and  fro, 
and  crying, 

"My  baby!  oh,  my  baby!" 

The  agonized  voice  came  up  distinctly — 
it  was  the  last  cry  of  despair. 

"There  is  a  child  in  that  house  still!"  I 
exclaimed.  "  Good  God!  It  is  not  possible 
that—" 

"  Good  God !"  came  like  an  echo  from  Pro 
fessor  Pressensee,  who  was  crouching,  with 
bent  head,  upon  the  window-sill. 

"Look!"  I  said;  "there  is  the  brave  of 
braves !" 

I  pointed  to  the  crowd.  Another  ladder 
was  hooked  on,  and  the  top  rose  to  the  third 
story.  Two  men  mounted  it,  straight  to 
ward  a  window  from  which  spouted  flame. 
Having  reached  the  top  round,  the  foremost 
man  held  down  his  head,  paused  for  a  sin 
gle  instant,  and  then  plunged  through  the 
llame  and  disappeared. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSES  SEE.  41 

"Oh  my  God!"  cried  Professor  Pressen- 
see,  clutching  the  sash  beside  him ;  "  useless, 
useless !  Both  are  gone — man  and  child !" 

A  roar  like  the  sound  of  a  torrent  sud 
denly  rose  from  the  densely  packed  crowd. 
The  man  appeared  at  the  window,  holding 
something  white  in  his  arms.  As  his  leg 
passed  over  the  sill,  he  tottered.  A  blind 
ing,  destroying  volume  of  smoke  and  flame 
enveloped  him ;  then  he  fell  forward,  still 
clutching  the  white  object.  Help  was  at 
hand.  He  was  caught,  as  he  fell,  by  the 
men  on  the  ladder,  and  carried  insensible  to 
the  ground,  in  the  midst  of  a  shout  from  the 
multitude.  He  had  never  relaxed  his  hold 
upon  the  child,  which  a  moment  afterward 
its  mother  caught  to  her  heart,  fondling  and 
kissing  it  as  if  she  never  could  be  done,  and 
sublimely  forgetful  of  her  half-clothed  con 
dition,  in  spite  of  the  bitter  cold. 

Five  minutes  afterward  the  fire  was  near 
ly  extinguished,  and  Professor  Pressensee 
withdrew  from  the  window.  A  sort  of 
shudder  still  agitated  him. 

"  It  was  not  without  reason,"  he  mutter 
ed,"  that  the  Komans  called  courage  virtue  !n 

I  looked  attentively  at  the  speaker.  I 
could  not  withhold  my  retort. 

"And  yet  you  say  that  heat  produces  all 


42  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

things  —  that  material  force  alone  exists. 
Formulate  me  your  principle  that  explains 
this  brave  action  on  that  theory,  friend." 

" Humph!  humph!"  came  in  a  smothered 
growl  in  reply. 

All  at  once  the  voice  of  Marie  was  heard 
calling  from  the  second  floor  below,  upon 
which  the  gas  was  burning.  Still  agitated 
by  the  incident  of  the  fire,  I  hastened  with 
the  professor  to  the  stairway,  and  unwit 
tingly  surprised  little  Marie  in  her  snowy 
night-dress,  beneath  which  appeared  two 
small  bare  feet,  and  with  her  hair  upon  her 
shoulders.  She  retreated  quickly  out  of 
sight,  calling, 

" Oh,  papa!  did  you  see  the  dear  little 
baby,  and  that  brave  man  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  mignon — he  was  brave  indeed !" 

"  The  poor,  poor,  dear  little  baby !  It  was 
nearly  burned;  but  it  is  saved,  saved,  papa. 
God  watched  over  it !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  petite ;  now  go  back  to  bed.  It 
is  late." 

"  Yes,  dear  papa,"  came  back,  and  the  door 
closed.  I  held  out  my  hand,  showing  the 
professor  my  watch,  which  pointed  to  fif 
teen  minutes  of  one. 

"Yon  must  go?"  he  said.  "  Well,  a  glass 
of  Madeira  first." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  43 

My  host  descended  with  me  to  the  front 
door. 

"I  owe  you  an  agreeable  evening,  pro 
fessor/7  I  said.  "Your  philosophy  of  the 
universe,  to  speak  frankly,  outrages  all  ray 
convictions;  but  it  is  good  to  speak  plainly." 

"  I  say  what  I  think,  friend,"  he  growled. 

"  I  am  certain  of  that ;  and  yet  consider 
the  residuum  in  the  crucible  of  your  thought. 
This  heroism  we  have  witnessed  to-night  is 
only  brute  instinct,  you  say — the  material 
impulse  of  matter !  This  heroic  fireman  who 
perils  his  life  to  save  an  infant  is  inspired 
by  nothing  but — heat !  Courage,  the  un 
shrinking  nerve,  the  soul  risking  death  of 
the  body  without  thought  of  self -advan 
tage — all  are  to  fall  into  nothingness,  and 
lose  their  individuality !  There  is  no  other 
world  in  which  this  child  will  greet  its  pre 
server — in  which  the  mother  will  bless  him 
with  her  eyes !  To  speak  without  ceremony 
— this  burning  house  to-night  might  have 
been  your  own;  the  mother  with  clasped 
hands  might  have  been  Marie's  mother; 
Marie  might  have  been  in  place  of  the  poor 
babe,  and  no  hero  might  have  been  present 
to  rescue  her.  What  then  ?" 

Professor  Pressensee  was  looking  with 
knit  brows  upon  the  carpet,  in  silence. 


44  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

"  Your  philosophy  separates  you,"  I  said, 
"  from  those  who  are  clearer  to  you  than  life. 
They  may  leave  you,  you  may  see  them  pass 
away ;  and  then,  I  tell  you,  friend,  that,  with 
your  convictions,  you  will  be  of  all  men  the 
most  miserable." 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Your  meaning  ?" 

"  There  is  a  method  of  terminating  men 
tal  misery." 

"  You  would  say — " 

"  I  should  not  survive  my  Marguerite  and 
Marie." 

"You  would—?" 

"Put  an  end  to  myself  ?  Yes.  But  I  am 
detaining  you,  friend.  Good-night." 

The  door  closed,  and  the  singular  person 
age  disappeared.  Walking  along  the  de 
serted  street,  I  felt  an  oppression  at  the 
heart  which  I  could  not  throw  off.  On  the 
next  day  I  was  called  away  from  the  city, 
and  did  not  see  him  again. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  45 


V. 

IN  the  summer  of  1874  I  was  at  the  Vir 
ginia  Springs.  Confinement  in  the  city  had 
brought  ou  a  general  derangement  of  my 
health,  to  which  was  added  a  distressing 
rheumatic  affection,  prostrating  the  ner 
vous  system,  and  producing  great  mental  de 
pression.  Quinine  allayed,  in  some  meas 
ure,  this  painful  ailment;  but  hot  baths 
were  prescribed  by  my  physician  as  a  cer 
tain  cure,  and  I  soon  found  the  efficacy  of 
the  remedy.  In  the  first  days  of  autumn  I 
was  almost  completely  restored  to  health ; 
and  the  resident  physician  said, 

"If  you  could  now  make  a  journey  on 
horseback — go  on  a  hunting  expedition — 
in  a  word,  take  open-air  exercise  regularly 
for  a  week  or  two,  you  would  return  entire 
ly  well.  Your  system  requires  heat,  force; 
these  mean  health,  and  exercise  will  supply 
them.'7 

The  prescription  was  a  most  agreeable 
one.  Always  fond  of  fresh  air,  movement, 
and  hunting,  from  my  country  training,  I 


46  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

caught  at  my  old  physician's  proposal  with 
ardor,  and  set  about  following  it.  Hiring 
in  the  neighborhood  a  good  riding-horse,  I 
ordered  a  light  carbine  and  ammunition. 
It  duly  arrived  by  express,  and  on  a  beauti- 
fnl  October  morning  I  mounted  and  set  out 
for  the  western  mountains.  There  was 
something  quite  delightful  in  the  fresh  air 
and  the  sense  of  freedom.  In  a  small  valise 
behind  my  saddle  was  a  change  of  linen ; 
slung  at  my  back  was  the  light  rifled  car 
bine  I  had  purchased.  I  looked  forward 
ardently  to  a  good  deer -hunt  before  long, 
and  went  on  in  the  direction  of  the  Allegha- 
nies,  rising  like  a  blue  wave  in  front,  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  boy  on  a  holiday  excur 
sion. 

As  I  rode  on,  I  thought  of  my  old  physi 
cian's  expression — "Your  system  requires 
heat,  force;"  and  the  words  recalled  my  sin 
gular  New  York  acquaintance,  Professor 
Pressensee.  For  nearly  two  years  I  had 
heard  nothing  of  him,  or  rather  from  him. 
The  letter  of  a  friend  residing  in  the  city 
had,  however,  given  me  a  few  details  of  the 
man.  I  had  written  to  this  friend,  "  Do  you 
know  a  Professor  Pressensee,  residing  in 

Street  ?     Who  and  what  is  he  ?"     And 

my  friend  had  replied:   "You  ask  about 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  47 

Professor  Pressensee — who  and  what  he  is  ? 
As  to  the  wlio,  I  really  have  no  idea  what 
ever.  I  meet  him  now  and  then  at  the 
"  Century  "  —  not  recently,  however  —  and 
can  only  say  that  he  appears  to  be  a  Ger 
man,  though  his  accent  and  phraseology  are 
somewhat  French.  As  to  what  he  is,  there 
I  am  nearly  as  much  at  fault.  I  can  only 
tell  you  that  he  is  a  very  fine  connoisseur 
in  painting,  and  a  man  of  liberal  charities. 
His  contributions  to  benevolent  objects  are 
princely,  and  I  should  say  that  the  man  was 
not  only  a  good  citizen,  but  an  exemplary 
Christian.  As  to  anything  further  connect 
ed  with  him,  I  know  nothing,  and  I  believe 
nobody  knows  anything.  He  is  one  of  those 
mysteries  you  meet  on  Broadway  any  day 
in  the  week." 

That  was  all.  Here  all  information  in 
reference  to  my  singular  chance  -  friend  of 
1872  stopped.  It  was  not  very  satisfactory 
to  my  curiosity ;  but  one  detail  struck  me. 
So  Professor  Pressensee  was  an  "  exemplary 
Christian,"  since  he  gave  liberally  to  char 
itable  objects.  I  knew  better  than  that. 
That  he  was  liberal,  generous  to  the  echo 
with  his  means,  I  could  easily  understand. 
That  he  believed  in  the  divine  origin  of 
Christianity  I  knew  to  be  a  mere  fancy,  un- 


48  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

less  all  his  views  had  suddenly  changed; 
and  in  due  time  I  was  to  discover  that  no 
such  change  had  taken  place.  Going  along 
now  in  the  autumn  sunshine,  I  thought  of 
these  meagre  particulars  relating  to  Profess 
or  Pressensee,  and  asked  myself  what  could 
have  become  of  him?  His  whereabouts, 
even,  were  a  complete  mystery,  as  my  friend 
had  intimated  that  his  visits  to  the  "  Cen 
tury"  had  been  discontinued;  and  after 
thinking  of  him  for  an  hour,  I  banished  the 
whole  subject  from  my  mind,  and  rode  on, 
with  a  sense  of  full  animal  enjoyment  of  the 
bracing  mountain  air. 

I  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  and  by 
noon  had  penetrated  a  considerable  distance 
into  the  wild  and  beautiful  region  west  of 
the  Virginia  Valley.  At  a  mountain  cabin 
I  procured  dinner  for  myself  and  forage  for 
my  horse ;  and,  resolving  to  make  the  best 
of  my  time,  set  forward  again,  intent  on 
reaching  the  house  of  an  old  deer -hunter 
to  which  my  host  directed  me.  The  road 
which  I  now  followed  gradually  ascended. 
Before  me  was  a  range  of  wooded  hills, 
which  it  crossed  —  a  narrow  opening  in  a 
mass  of  variegated  verdure.  I  reached  the 
top  of  the  range,  looked  beyond,  and  stop 
ped,  quite  charmed  with  the  magnificent 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  49 

scene  before  me.  Beneath  me  lay  a  shel 
tered  valley,  over  which  the  western  moun 
tains  seemed  to  lean.  The  sun  was  just 
sinking,  and  threw  long  shadows  across  the 
cleared  fields  and  woods.  A  small  stream 
glittered  in  the  evening  light,  appearing 
and  disappearing  here  and  there  with  its 
fringe  of  foliage.  Ou  its  hanks,  perched 
on  a  green  knoll,  I  observed  a  comfortable 
mansion  embowered  in  oaks,  just  touched 
by  the  burning  finger  of  autumn ;  and  this 
was  the  only  human  habitation  in  sight. 
To  the  right,  to  the  left,  in  front,  all  was 
forest  and  mountain. 

"Well,"  I  said,  aloud,  " it  seems  that  I 
am  not  to  reach  my  friend  the  old  hunter's 
house  to-night,  unless  that  attractive-look 
ing  residence  is  his,  which  I  think  improb 
able.  But  I  will  find  shelter  there,  at  least, 
for  the  night.  No  one  is  ever  turned  away 
in  Virginia  " 

I  rode  on  down  into  the  valley,  found  the 
road  led  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  and 
entering  the  grounds,  which  were  extensive, 
grass-clad,  and  dotted  with  oaks,  came  in. 
front  of  the  building.  It  was  of  stone,  ap 
parently,  covered  with  brown  stucco,  and  of 
considerable  size.  On  each  side  of  the  main 
central  portion  were  two  wings.  A  large 
4 


50  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

double  window  in  the  centre,  above  the  por 
tico,  seemed  to  indicate  that  one  large  apart 
ment  took  up  the  whole  of  the  second  floor 
of  the  central  building,  wrhich  two  great 
oaks  brushed  with  their  foliage. 

These  details  I  took  in  at  a  glance.  I 
was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  so  consider 
able  a  mansion  in  so  wild  a  spot,  but  remem 
bered  that  many  impoverished  landholders 
from  tide-water  Virginia  had  from  time  to 
time  removed  to  the  rich  lands  of  the  region 
to  better  their  fortunes.  This  was  probably 
one  of  the  houses  built  by  that  class  of  per 
sons,  and  if  so,  I  was  quite  sure  of  a  cordial 
and  hospitable  reception.  I  at  once  dis 
mounted,  went  up  the  steps,  and  knocked  at 
the  door.  Steps  approached,  the  door  was 
opened,  and  I  saw  before  me  the  same  for 
eign-looking  servant  who  had  answered  the 
bell-stroke  at  Professor  Pressensee's  house 
in  New  York. 

The  appearance  of  the  man  excited  in  me 
the  very  greatest  astonishment.  I  remem 
bered  his  face  perfectly,  and  looked  at  him 
for  a  moment  in  dumb  surprise.  He  did  not 
seem  to  recognize  me,  and  I  said, 

"Is  it  possible  that —  I  am  certainly 
not  mistaken.  You  are  the  servant  of  Pro 
fessor  Presseusee,  are  you  not  V 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  51 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  briefly,  with  a 
strong  German  accent. 

"  Does  Professor  Pressensee  live  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  He  is  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  words  were  uttered  in  the  same  quiet 
and  reserved  voice  as  before.  The  man 
stood  looking  at  me  without  the  movement 
of  a  feature,  and  the  whole  incident  impress 
ed  me  like  a  dream — as  something  unreal. 

"  Say  that  an  old  friend  has  called  to  see 
him,"  I  said,  "  if  he  is  not  too  much  engaged." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Moving  like  an  automaton,  the  man  open 
ed  the  door  of  an  apartment  to  the  right  of 
the  broad  staircase  leading  to  the  second 
story,  and  ushered  me  in,  after  which  he  dis 
appeared,  his  steps  ascending  the  stairs  with 
out.  The  room  was  of  considerable  size,  and 
furnished  in  carved  walnut,  the  effect  of 
which  was  rich  but  sombre.  A  carpet  of  the 
tint  styled  ashes  of  roses  covered  the  floor. 
Against  one  of  the  walls  stood  a  very  fine 
piano ;  easy-chairs  were  seen  here  and  there ; 
on  the  centre-table  were  the  last  books  and 
periodicals;  and  in  the  fireplace  a  slight 
blaze  diffused  a  cheerful  warmth.  What 
immediately  attracted  my  attention,  how- 


52  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

ever,  and  riveted  it,  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else,  was  a  portrait  over  the  mantel-piece, 
nearly  a  fall  length.  It  was  that  of  Mrs. 
Pressensee,  looking  precisely  as  I  had  seen 
her  in  New  York.  The  painting  was  excel 
lent,  and  the  likeness  perfect.  The  beauti 
ful  face  smiled  from  the  canvas,  and  seemed 
about  to  speak  to  me  and  welcome  me. 

I  was  still  looking  at  the  picture,  when  I 
became  conscious  that  some  one  else  was  in 
the  apartment.  I  employ  the  phrase  "be 
came  conscious  "  designedly ;  I  had  heard  no 
one  enter,  and  yet  I  felt  that  I  was  not  the 
only  occupant  of  the  room.  I  turned  quick 
ly,  and  found  myself  face  to  face  with  Pro 
fessor  Pressensee. 

If  I  had  not  expected  to  meet  him,  I  doubt 
whether  I  should  have  recognized  him.  He 
was  wasted  away  to  a  shadow  nearly,  and 
his  dark  eyes  were  sunken  deep  in  the  cav 
ernous  hollows  under  his  massive  brow. 
His  long  hair  had  become  nearly  white. 
His  thin  lips  were  set  together  like  a  vise. 
From  his  emaciated  frame  the  dressiug-gown 
which  he  wore  fell  in  ample  folds,  and  his 
feet  were  thrust  into  slippers  which  had 
made  no  sound  as  he  approached  me. 

I  hastened  to  hold  out  my  hand. 

"  You  did  not  expect  to  see  me,  my  dear 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  53 

professor/7 1  said,  "  and  my  surprise  at  see 
ing  you  iu  this  remote  place  is  as  great. 
You  must  remember  me." 

"Ah!"  he  said,  iu  his  deep,  firm  voice, 
which  I  recalled  so  perfectly,  "is  it  possi 
ble  !  Yes,  friend,  yes ;  I  remember  you  per 
fectly." 

"  It  was  during  the  winter  of  1872  that  I 
saw  you  in  New  York." 

"  Yes,  the  winter  of  1872,"  he  repeated, 
raising  his  eyes  to  the  portrait. 

"  And  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  how  much 
I  enjoyed  the  hours  spent  in  your  happy 
household.  Your  wife  and  daughter  are — 

I  stopped.  The  professor's  face  altered. 
His  frame  shook. 

"  You  were  looking  at  that  portrait,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  agitation. 

"Yes;  it  is  a  wonderful  likeness.  I 
hope — " 

"  Look  well  at  it.  You  will  never  see  her 
again  in  this  world !" 

"  You  do  not  mean — " 

"  She  is  gone !" 

He  went  and  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair, 
his  chin  resting  on  his  breast,  and  I  took  a 
seat  facing  him. 

"  I  am  truly  grieved,  dear  Professor  Pres- 
sensee,  to  hear  such  sorrowful  intelligence," 


54  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

I  said.  "  It  is  an  entire  surprise  to  me — like 
finding  you  in  this  out-of-the-way  spot." 

He  had  recovered  his  self-control  Tby  a 
powerful  effort. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  his  former  deep  voice, 
measured  and  deliberate ;  "  I  came  here  be 
cause  the  home  you  remember  was  insup 
portable  to  me.  She  died  there,  and  every 
object  was  a  misery  to  me.  It  was  too  much 
for  my  physical  strength,  and  I  left  the  place 
forever." 

He  stopped — then  went  on : 

"  She  died  suddenly,  of  an  acute  disease 
brought  on  by  imprudent  exposure,  a  year 
ago.  Then  I  came  here  and  purchased  this 
estate,  seen  as  I  passed  in  my  carriage  in  a 
tour  in  the  mountains  with  my  child.  It  is 
away  from  a  world  I  hate.  My  child  is  sat 
isfied  with  it.  I  live  my  life  in  quiet,  wait 
ing  for  the  end." 

A  profound  hopelessness  spoke  in  his  voice. 
His  dull  eyes  were  without  expression  until 
he  mentioned  his  daughter,  when  a  glow 
came  to  them ;  but  it  at  once  died  away. 

"  Your  little  Marie  is  left  to  you,  at  least," 
I  said,  "  and,  as  your  friend,  I  thank  Heaven 
for  it." 

"Yes;  Marie  is  left  me,  and  Marguerite 
too ;  she  is  with  me  still." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  55 

I  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise. 

"  You  meau — your  wife  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  She  is  tuith  you  still  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  will  explain  that  to  you — not  to 
another ;  but  later :  I  am  moved  now.  The 
sight  of  your  face  brings  back  everything. 
You  are  travelling?  Travellers  are  free. 
You  will  stay  with  me  ?" 

"For  a  day  or  two  at  least.  I  have  no 
prescribed  route  or  engagements." 

I  explained  to  him  the  object  of  my  jour 
ney  into  the  mountains,  and  he  said, 

"  Good !  There  are  plenty  of  deer  in  the 
hills  here.  You  shall  be  the  master  of  your 
own  time — going  and  coming  as  you  fancy." 

He  touched  a  bell -knob,  and,  when  the 
German -looking  servant  appeared,  pointed 
to  my  horse  through  the  window,  and  said, 

"  Prepare  the  blue  room." 

The  servant  noiselessly  withdrew,  and  my 
horse  disappeared.  Then  an  old  house-keep 
er  went  quietly  up-stairs.  In  the  establish 
ment  everything  moved  like  clock-work — 
as  regularly  and  with  as  little  noise. 

"  But  your  daughter,  friend,"  I  said ;  "  lit 
tle  Miss  Marie  ?" 

•Pressensee  again  touched  the  bell -knob, 
and  his  body-servant  entered. 


56  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"Say  to  Miss  Marie  that  ail  old  friend 
calls  to  see  her." 

The  servant  left  the  room,  and  ten  min 
utes  afterward  light  steps  were  heard  trip 
ping  down  the  staircase.  Then,  a  tall  and 
very  beautiful  girl  came  in.  I  should  not 
have  known  her.  All  at  once  the  little 

Marie  of Street,  New  York,  had  become 

a  woman,  and  an  exquisitely  lovely  one. 
She  glided  across  the  floor,  with  her  pretty 
face  composed  to  an  expression  of  lady-like 
courtesy,  but  recognized  me  instantly,  and 
ran  forward  with  both  hands  held  out,  ex 
claiming, 

"Oh,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  yon,  sir!" 

"You  remember  me,  then?"  I  said,  smil 
ing  and  taking  her  extended  hands. 

"  Oh  yes !" 

She  looked  into  my  face  with  the  frank 
est  pleasure,  and  was  soon  seated,  engaged 
in  animated  conversation.  The  contrast 
between  father  and  daughter  was  perfect — 
one  was  sunshine,  the  other  shadow.  But  I 
suspected  then,  and  knew  afterward,  that 
this  intelligent  and  true-hearted  girl  as 
sumed  much  of  her  gayety  to  cheer  one  to 
whom  her  whole  soul  was  devoted. 

An  excellent  supper  and  a  sound  night's 
rest  followed,  interrupted  only  by  a  vague 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  57 

recollection  of  my  host's  words  —  "Yes; 
Marie  is  left  me,  and  Marguerite  too;  she  is 
ivith  me  still.  I  will  explain  that  to  you — not 
to  another." 

Wlieii  I  rose,  these  words  were  still  ring 
ing  in  iny  ears.  What  did  they  mean?  I 
asked  myself. 


VI. 

SEATED  iu  the  passage  beside  the  stair 
case  I  ohserved  a  tall,  gaunt  personage,  clad 
in  a  homespun  coat  and  deer-skin  leggings. 
When  he  saw  me  he  rose,  and  said,  in  an 
honest,  guileless  voice, 

"Are  you  the  gentleman  that  is  come  to 
deer-hunt?" 

"  Yes.  Who  are  you,  my  friend  ?  and  how 
did  you  know  I  was  on  a  hunting  expedi 
tion  ?" 

"  I  was  sent  for  last  night,  stranger,"  was 
the  reply. 

And  I  soon  found  that  I  owed  this  cour 
tesy  to  the  professor,  who  had  despatched  a 
messenger  at  once  for  my  friend  with  the 
deer-skin  leggings,  a  noted  hunter  of  the  re 
gion.  I  thanked  him  for  this  obliging  at 
tention,  and  after  breakfast  mounted  my 


58  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

horse,  carbine  in  hand.  The  old  hunter  led 
the  way  on  a  shaggy  little  pony,  and  we  set 
out  for  the  mountain. 

Keenly  as  I  enjoyed  the  anticipated  sport, 
I  should  gladly  have  remained  with  Pro 
fessor  Presseusee,  for  rny  curiosity  had  been 
greatly  excited  by  that  strange  statement 
that  his  wife  was  with  him  still.  That  he 
had  not  employed  the  phrase  in  a  figurative 
sense,  as  indicating  that,  although  gone,  she 
still  lived  in  his  heart  and  memory,  was  ob 
vious  from  the  expression  which  followed — 
"  I  will  explain  that  to  you — not  to  anoth 
er."  What  was  hidden  behind  these  words  ? 
what  did  they  signify?  I  recalled  the  tone 
in  which  they  were  uttered  —  a  somewhat 
singular  one,  I  thought — and  vainly  puzzled 
my  brain  to  understand  what  the  speaker 
meant.  They  had  haunted  me  in  sleep,  as  I 
have  said,  and  I  had  determined  to  embrace 
the  first  opportunity  to  ask  an  explanation. 
This  was  now  defeated  for  the  present ;  my 
host's  courtesy  had  banished  me  for  the  day 
from  his  establishment ;  and  I  could  only 
resolve  to  remain  inactive  on  the  next  day, 
giving  him  an  opportunity,  if  he  wished  it, 
to  explain  his  singular  words. 

As  the  deer-hunt  which  now  took  place 
has  no  especial  connection  with  my  narra- 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  59 

tive,  I  shall  pass  over  it  without  special 
reference,  save  to  one  of  its  incidents.  It 
was  a  still  hunt,  and  a  little  past  noon  I  had 
the  satisfaction  of  bringing  down  a  buck 
with  my  carbine  at  one  hundred  and  twen 
ty  yards,  putting  nay  bullet  directly  under 
his  eye  as  he  stopped  to  look  at  me.  At  the 
crack  of  my  carbine  my  friend,  the  old  hunt 
er,  came  up  from  his  stand  and  congratulated 
me,  coolly  cutting  the  throat  of  the  game  as 
he  spoke.  He  then  proposed  to  me  to  go 
with  him  to  his  cabin,  which,  he  informed 
me,  was  near  by,  and  "  take  a  bite,"  to  which 
I  assented.  The  buck  was  thrown  across 
his  pony  in  front  of  the  saddle ;  we  set  out, 
following  a  bridle-path  which  ascended  the 
mountain,  and  soon  reached  the  old  hunter's 
cabin. 

It  was  a  hut  containing  but  two  rooms, 
one  above  the  other,  and  covered  with  clap 
boards.  On  the  log  walls  were  stretched 
deer  and  raccoon  skins,  and  the  coverlet  of 
a  low  bed  in  one  corner  was  a  superb  bear 
skin.  In  the  broad  fireplace  a  fire  was 
burning,  and  the  old  hunter  began  to  fry 
some  venison,  which  was  soon  served  on  the 
rude  pine  table,  with  brown  bread  and  a 
pitcher  of  cider. 

"  My  boarder's  away  to-day  huutiu',  strau- 


60  PROFESSOR   PRESSEXSEE. 

ger,"  said  the  old  man,  with  bis  guileless 
smile;  "  but  mebbe he'li  be  bere  before  we're 
through." 

"Your  boarder?  Have  you  a  boarder, 
friend  ?» 

"  From  the  city,  I  take  it,"  was  his  reply  ; 
"  a  fine  young  man — rides  a  horse  it  would 
do  you  good  to  look  at — he's  in  the  shed 
yonder ;  and  as  to  money,  there's  no  end  of 
it  with  him." 

"  Indeed !  a  huntsman  ?" 

"I  ruther  think  that's  what  brings  him. 
But  I'm  jubious.  There's  somethin'  under 
his  comin'  to  the  mountings,  I  ruther  think." 

Having  finished  my  meal,  I  rose  and  went 
to  the  door,  speculating  vaguely  on  the  last 
words  of  the  old  hunter.  The  view  was 
quite  superb.  The  cabin  was  perched  upon 
a  knoll  on  the  very  brow  of  the  mountain, 
and  the  whole  valley  beneath  lay  before  me 
like  a  picture,  the  residence  of  Professor 
Pressensee  rising  clearly  from  the  trees  em 
bowering  it. 

The  old  hunter  rejoined  me,  after  putting 
away  the  debris  of  the  meal.  With  the  sim 
ple  smile  which  wTas  habitual  with  him,  he 
said: 

"I  ruther  judge  there's  somebody  livin' 
in  the  big  house  yonder" — he  pointed  to  the 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  61 

home  of  Pressensee — "  that  brings  my  young 
boarder  here.  He  sets  on  that  rock  there 
by  the  pine-tree  for  whole  hours  sometimes, 
nigh  sundown,  and  leans  his  head  on  his 
hand,  and  looks  and  looks  that  way  ?s  if  he 
never  would  be  done." 

I  smiled,  and  said, 

"  Your  account  of  your  young  boarder  is 
interesting,  my  friend,  and  there  seems  to  be 
some  romantic  affair  under  all  this.  What 
do  you  suppose  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  There 
is  a  very  attractive  young  lady  in  Professor 
Pressensee's  house  —  his  daughter — but  I 
doubt  if  she  has  anything  to  do  with  your 
boarder's  movements.  He  is  probably  rest 
ing  after  his  day's  hunting,  and  admiring 
the  landscape,  when  you  see  him  seated  yon 
der.  That  is  all." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  stranger,"  said  my 
host ;  "  looks  like  he  was  a-hankerin'  after 
somethin'  or  somebody.  But  yonder  he 
comes.  You  can  ask  him." 

The  old  hunter  pointed  to  a  figure  com 
ing  up  the  bridle-path  toward  the  cabin. 
It  was  that  of  a  tall  young  man  in  hunting 
costume,  with  fowling-piece  and  equipments 
complete.  He  came  on  with  a  long,  swing 
ing  walk,  and  was  soon  within  a  few  paces 
of  the  cabin.  I  looked  at  him  attentive- 


62  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

ly.  Something  in  the  frank  and  manly  face 
seemed  familiar.  He  came  nearer,  and  I  at 
once  recognized  him.  He  was  the  young 
Mr.  Alford  whom  I  had  met  at  Professor 

Pressensee's,  in  New  York. 


VII. 

THE  young  man  made  me  a  friendly  bow, 
accompanied  by  a  courteous  smile.  There 
was  no  change  in  his  appearance;  he  was 
the  same  modest,  manly-looking  young  fel 
low  who  had  impressed  me  so  favorably  in 
our  brief  meeting  nearly  two  years  before. 

Would  he  recognize  me?  I  doubted  it, 
for  we  had  only  exchanged  a  few  words  oil 
that  morning  at  Professor  Presseii see's.  My 
doubt  was  soon  dissipated.  He  looked  at 
me  attentively,  hesitated,  then  coming  for 
ward  quickly,  held  out  his  hand  and  pro 
nounced  my  name. 

"  This  is  a  very  unexpected  meeting,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile  of  evident  pleasure.  "  I 
saw  you  in  New  York  in  1872,  Mr. ." 

"At  our  friend  Professor  Pressensee's, 
where  I  am  now  on  a  visit.  Yes  ;  I  remem 
ber  perfectly,  and  recognized  you  at  once, 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  63 

Mr.  Alford.  You  are,  no  doubt,  iu  this  wild 
region,  on  a  bunting  expedition,  as  I  ain." 

He  laugbed,  and  colored  slightly,  as  be 
deposited  bis  fowling-piece  on  a  bench  in 
front  of  the  cabin.  He  then  unconsciously 
turned  his  bead,  and  looked  over  bis  shoul 
der  in  the  direction  of  Professor  Pressensee's 
bouse.  His  eye  caught  mine,  and  he  blush 
ed  this  time  unmistakably. 

"Yes,  I  am  fond  of  bunting,"  be  said, 
"and  I  hope  our  friend  has  something  for 
me  to  eat." 

As  the  old  hunter  had  at  once  put  some 
venison  on  the  fire  in  a  pan,  and  soon  served 
it,  the  young  fellow's  keen  appetite  was 
speedily  satisfied  ;  and  we  strolled  away  to 
gether  in  the  direction  of  the  broad  rock 
under  the  pine-tree,  from  which  the  fine 
view  of  the  valley  was  obtained.  I  bad 
made  up  my  mind  to  drop  ceremony,  and 
speak  frankly  to  the  young  man  on  his  own 
affairs.  I  had  no  doubt  whatever  that  the 
real  attraction  in  this  remote  retreat  was 
Marie  ;  and  I  must  say  that,  in  spite  of  the 
professor's  dissatisfaction  with  the  young 
fellow's  addresses,  I  sympathized  greatly 
with  him. 

lt  Mr.  Alford,"  I  said,  when  we  were  out 
of  hearing,  "  I  am  going  to  break  one  of  my 


64  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

fixed  rales,  and  meddle  with  what  does  not 
concern  me.  Shall  I  do  so  T} 

"  Yes/7  he  said,  laughing,  but  with  some 
sadness  in  his  frank  eyes.  "  I  think  I  un 
derstand  what  you  mean  —  it  is  not  med 
dling  at  all.  You  are  her  friend ;  she  often 
spoke  of  you,  and  with  great  regard." 

"  Well,  this  smooths  the  way  wonderful 
ly.  You  did  not  come  here  to  hunt;  you 
came  to  see  our  little  friend  Miss  Marie  !" 

This  time  the  sunburnt  cheeks  blushed 
hugely. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  Does  she  know  that  you  are  here  ?  But 
let  me  say  first,  before  we  proceed  any  fur 
ther,  that  my  object  in  thus  intruding  upon 
your  private  affairs  is  a  friendly  one.  I 
wish,  if  I  can,  to  serve  you." 

"  I  am  convinced  of  that,"  he  said,  in  a 
low,  earnest  tone.  "  Yes,  Marie  knows  that 
I  am  here,  but  she  will  not  let  me  see 
her." 

"  Why?  I  will  not  ask  you  if  this  arises 
from  a  feeling  of  indifference ;  I  am  pretty 
certain  it  does  not,  if  I  can  form  an  opin 
ion  from  her  reception  of  you  in  New  York. 
Why  does  she  object  to  seeing  you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  discover  why  she  shuns  me.  The  only 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  65 

explanation  she  gives  is  her  father's  objec 
tion  to  my  attentions." 

"I  noticed  this  disapprobation  in  New 
York.  What  is  the  explanation  of  it  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  in  a  depressed 
tone.  "  Professor  Pressensee  would  never 
give  any  reason.  Not  that  I  ever  asked  him 
to  do  so :  to  be  frank,  I  have  never  had  the 
courage  to  speak  to  him  on  the  subject." 

"A  plain  question — are  you  engaged  to 
Marie?" 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  She  will  not  engage  herself  without  her 
father's  consent,  and  there  seems  no  hope 
of  gaining  that.  Since  the  death  of  her 
mother  he  is  more  opposed  than  ever  to  me. 
My  visits  in  New  York  seemed  more  dis 
tasteful  to  him  every  day;  and  at  last  I 
only  saw  Marie  on  the  street  by  accident. 
One  day  I  saw  the  house  was  shut  up.  I 
inquired,  and  found  that  Professor  Pressen 
see  had  left  New  York." 

"You  have  followed,  however,  to  this 
spot.  How  did  you  discover  the  professor's 
retreat  ?" 

"Very  easily.     His  attorney  in  the  city 

was  a  personal  friend  of  mine,  and  told  me 

his  post-office  here.     I  came  to  the  Springs, 

and  then  to  this  cabin,  where  I  am  living." 

5 


66  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

"With  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  house 
your  inamorata  lives  in/7  I  said,  laughing, 
"  if  not  the  personage  herself.  I  can  un 
derstand  that.  But  you  have  met  her  ?" 

"  Once,  and  once  only.  She  was  walking 
out  in  the  evening,  along  that  small  stream 
down  there,  and  I  came  out  of  the  woods 
and  met  her  face  to  face.  She  showed  great 
surprise,  and  seemed  glad  to  see  me ;  but  a 
troubled  look  came  to  her  face,  and  she  said 
that  we  must  not  meet — her  father  did  not 
approve  of  it.  This  was  all  I  could  extract 
from  her,  and  our  interview  soon  ended, 
She  returned  to  the  house,  and  I  have  uot 
seen  her  again." 

A  long  silence  followed  this  brief  expla 
nation  of  the  state  of  affairs.  I  was  reflect 
ing.  It  seemed  to  me  that  to  thus  separate 
two  young  persons  who  plainly  loved  each 
other  was  a  bad  business,  unless  there  was 
good  reason  for  it.  It  is  said  that  all  wom 
en  are  match-makers,  but  so  are  some  men ; 
and  I  felt  an  earnest  desire  to  smooth,  if  pos 
sible,  the  difficulties  in  the  path  of  young 
Alford  and  his  little  sweetheart.  I  now  told 
him  of  this  desire,  and  he  thanked  me  ear 
nestly. 

"  If  you  could  only  induce  her  to  let  me 
see  her !"  he  said,  ardently.  "  I  do  not  mean 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  67 

to  conceal  anything  from  Professor  Pressen- 
see.  But  if  I  could  only  see  her !" 

The  tone  in  which  these  words  were  ut 
tered  showed  how  strong  the  young  man's 
sentiment  was.  Young,  handsome,  devoted, 
high-toned,  and  with  ample  means  to  marry, 
it  seemed  most  unreasonable  that  the  youth 
should  be  repulsed  without  at  least  some 
statement  of  the  grounds  of  Professor  Pres- 
sen see's  disapproval. 

We  discussed  the  whole  affair  at  length, 
and  I  announced  my  determination  first  to 
see  Marie,  and  then  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
from  the  professor  why  he  was  thus  obdu 
rate.  My  young  friend  thanked  me  earnest 
ly,  and  said  that  he  would  owe  me  an  ever 
lasting  debt  of  gratitude ;  and  having  ap 
pointed  to  meet  him  at  a  spot  on  the  banks 
of  the  stream  below  on  the  next  evening,  I 
returned  with  him  to  the  cabin,  to  tell  my 
friend,  the  old  hunter,  good-bye. 

He  resolutely  refused  the  money  I  offered 
him.  No :  Professor  Pressensee  had  been 
his  friend,  and  he  was  only  too  glad  to  do 
anything  he  could  to  accommodate  him. 
He  was  going  to  take  my  buck  home  for 
me ;  and  this  he  persisted  in  doing,  in  spite 
of  my  opposition.  He  threw  the  deer  over 
his  pony's  neck ;  I  mounted,  bidding  young 


68  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

Alford  good-bye,  and  we  rode  down  the 
mountain,  and  reached  Professor  Pressen- 
see's  just  as  the  sun  was  sinking. 

With  his  guileless  smile,  the  old  hunter 
then  shook  hands,  and,  leaving  the  deer  on 
the  portico,  returned  to  his  cabin.  I  went 
into  the  drawing-room.  In  one  corner  sat 
Marie,  reading. 


VIII. 

I  DREW  a  chair  to  her  side  and  sat  down, 
holding  out  my  hand. 

"  In  Virginia  we  always  shake  hands  when 
we  meet  or  part  with  anybody,  you  know," 
I  said,  smiling :  "  it  is  a  law  of  the  country." 

"A  very  good  law,"  Marie  said,  with  a 
bright  look  in  her  fresh  eyes.  "  I  like  what 
is  friendly  and  natural  better  than  cere 
mony." 

"  And  then,  you  know,  Miss  Marie,  we  are 
quite  old  friends  now :  ceremony  would  be 
out  of  place  with  us." 

"You  do  not  practice  what  you  preach, 
sir,"  said  the  young  lady,  laughing,  "  as  you 
call  me  Miss  Marie." 

"  What  should  I  call  you  ?" 

"  Plain  Marie,  of  course !" 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  69 

Her  face  was  charming,  as  she  thus  spoke, 
and  her  voice  like  music.  There  was,  indeed, 
something  about  this  girl  which  drew  you 
irresistibly.  In  young  Alford  it  had  pro 
duced  ardent  love ;  in  myself,  an  affectionate 
attachment.  My  sympathy  was  more  than 
ever  aroused  for  the  young  people,  and  I  de 
termined  to  plunge  at  once  in  medias  res. 

"  You  know  your  friend  Mr.  Alford  is  in 
the  neighborhood,  Marie  since  you  say  I 
must  call  you  so,"  I  said.  "Why  do  you 
treat  him  so  coldly  ?" 

A  vivid  blush  came  to  her  face,  mantling 
cheek,  neck,  and  forehead.  Her  lips  open 
ed,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"You  will  think  me  very  intrusive,"  I 
said;  "but  my  intrusion  results  from  my 
sincere  friendship  for  you — and  him." 

She  glanced  at  me  quickly.  There  was 
some  surprise  in  her  look. 

"  I  understand,"  I  said.  "  You  are  puz 
zled  to  know  how  I  came  to  be  the  friend 
and  confidant  of  one  I  know  so  slightly. 
It  is  due  to  my  straightforward  manner 
of  proceeding,  no  doubt — to  my  asking  the 
most  unceremonious  questions.  I  was  con 
scious  that  my  motive  was  good  —  at  all 
events,  I  know  all.  Young  Alford  is  yonder 
in  a  cabin  on  the  mountain.  When  he  is 


70  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

not  wearing  himself  out  hunting,  he  is  look 
ing  down  toward  this  house  because  you 
live  in  it,  and  pining  for  you.  Why  do  you 
refuse  to  let  him  see  you  f7 

Marie  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  sobbed. 

"  Oh !  it  is  not  my — I  mean  that  Mr.  Al- 
ford  ought  not  to  think — papa  does  not  wish 
me  to  receive  his  visits,  and  I  cannot  see  him 
without  papa's  consent." 

"  But  why  does  your  father  object  to  his 
attentions,  Marie  V 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied.  "  He  has 
not  given  me  any  reason,  and,  indeed,  has 
scarcely  ever  referred  to  him.  I  only  see  that 
it  grieves  him — I  mean,  I  saw  in  New  York 
— and  I  would  rather  die  than  grieve  papa." 

So  the  young  lady  herself  was  ignorant  of 
the  reasons  of  Professor  Presseusee's  objec 
tion  to  the  youth's  attentions.  She  had  as 
sented  without  opposition  or  questions  even 
— filial  devotion  could  go  no  farther.  I  re 
flected  for  some  moments,  and  then  said, 

"  You  will  not  meet  your  friend,  then  ? 
Yes,  you  are  right ;  you  should  not  do  so 
without  your  father's  consent.  Shall  I  en 
deavor  to  procure  that  assent?  I  ask  you 
an  extremely  plain  question,  my  dear  Marie, 
which  you  must  pardon  in  an  old  gentleman. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  71 

I  do  not  conceal  the  fact  that  I  take  a  great 
interest  in  your  affairs — and  Mr.  Alford's." 

She  gave  me  a  flitting  glance,  smiles  shin 
ing  through  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
cheeks  reddened. 

"  That  is  quite  sufficient,  Marie,"  I  said, 
"and  I  shall  attack  your  papa  upon  this 
subject  at  the  very  first  favorable  moment. 
The  result  will  be  reported  to  a  friend  of 
mine  to-morrow  evening.  I  am  to  meet  him, 
and  will  tell  him  how  well  you  are  looking. 
That  wild-flower  in  your  hair  is  most  be 
coming,  and  would  suit  my  button-hole !" 

She  smiled,  and  drew  the  rose  from  her 
hair,  holding  it  toward  me. 

"  Am  I  at  liberty  to  present  it  to  any  one 
I  wish  ?"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  was  her  low  reply. 

"Telling  him  where  I  saw  it  nestling?" 
I  said,  taking  the  flower. 

"If  you  choose,"  she  said,  looking  away, 
and  blushing. 

And  so  my  interview  with  Marie  termi 
nated. 

I  had  expected  every  moment  to  hear 
the  footsteps  of  Professor  Pressensee  on  the 
stairs,  and  to  see  him  enter.  In  this  hope  I 
was  disappointed.  The  young  lady  inform 
ed  me  that  he  had  been  suddenly  summoned 


72  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

to  the  county  seat,  which  was  at  a  consider 
able  distance,  011  business,  and  had  set  out 
in  his  carriage  soon  after  my  departure  for 
the  mountain.  He  might  return  that  even 
ing,  or  remain  until  the  next  day.  She  was 
quite  used  to  these  brief  absences,  and  was 
not  at  all  afraid,  as  Fritz,  their  old  family 
servant,  remained  at  home.  After  which  ex 
planation  Miss  Marie  went  to  superintend 
her  house-keeping. 

The  professor  did  not  return  that  night, 
and  the  next  day  a  heavy  rain  set  in,  which 
continued  to  fall  until  evening.  I  neverthe 
less  wrapped  my  water-proof  cloak  around 
me,  at  the  hour  which  had  been  agreed  upon 
by  myself  and  young  Alford,  and  went  to 
the  place  of  meeting,  quite  certain  of  find 
ing  him  there.  He  had  been  waiting,  and  I 
could  only  inform  him  of  the  result  of  my 
conversation  with  Marie.  I  had  not  yet  seen 
the  professor,  I  said,  and  this  left  him  de 
cidedly  depressed.  When,  however,  I  gave 
him  the  flower  from  Marie's  hair,  telling  him 
that  she  knew  and  approved  of  its  destina 
tion,  his  face  glowed  with  joy. 

We  separated  toward  sunset,  with  a  prom 
ise  on  my  part  that,  as  soon  as  I  had  any 
thing  to  communicate,  I  would  ride  to  the 
mountain  cabin  and  see  him.  I  then  wrap- 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  73 

ped  my  water-  proof  closer  around,  me,  and 
returned  to  the  house. 

I  found  Marie  on  the  porch,  wrapped  in  a 
cloth  cloak,  with  the  hood  over  her  head 
and  India-rubbers  upon  her  small  feet. 

t(  I  am  a  little  uneasy  about  papa,"  she 
said,  "and  am  afraid  seme  accident  must 
have  happened.  The  streams  swell  very 
quickly  from  the  rain." 

Her  expression  was  anxious,  and  she  was 
evidently  nervous.  I  endeavored  to  quiet 
her  apprehensions,  hut  saw  that  they  were 
not  dissipated. 

"  Papa  is  so  careless  of  danger !"  she  said. 
"Kather  than  have  me  feel  uneasy  on  his 
account,  he  would  swim  the  horses.  Please 
go  with  me  a  little  way  on  the  road  to  look 
for  him — as  far  as  the  ford  down  there.  I 
am  well  wrapped  up,  and  do  not  mind  the 
wet." 

Such  exposure  seemed  to  me  so  injudicious 
that  I  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  her  inten 
tion  ;  but  she  persisted,  and  seemed  so  un 
easy  that  I  finally  yielded,  and  we  set  out 
in  the  direction  of  the  water-course,  the  rain 
still  falling  steadily.  Marie  walked  with 
rapid  steps,  and  peered  anxiously  through 
the  gathering  darkness.  I  regretted  very 
much  having  yielded  to  her  request  without 


74  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

greater  opposition,  as  the  rain  was  now  a 
torrent  almost ;  but  she  hastened  on,  paying 
no  attention  to  the  storin,  and  we  were  soon 
at  the  ford.  A  glance  told  me  that  the 
stream  was  greatly  swollen.  It  was  out  of 
its  banks,  and  galloped  like  a  race-horse.  I 
began  to  feel,  with  Marie,  that  there  was 
reason  to  fear  some  accident  if  her  father  had 
attempted  to  return  home  when  the  water 
courses  in  his  path  were  in  such  a  condition ; 
and  I  now  endeavored  to  persuade  her  that 
he  had  not  set  out  on  his  return  that  day, 
but  delayed  it  until  the  next.  At  this  Marie 
shook  her  head. 

"  Papa  is  very  brave,  almost  reckless," 
she  said :  "  he  never  pays  any  attention  to 
danger." 

The  wind  dashed  the  rain  in  her  face, 
nearly  drowning  her  voice. 

"He  has  remained  at  the  town,  neverthe 
less,"  I  said.  "  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  I  am  sure  he  has  not ;  and  look — there 
is  the  carriage!" 

I  looked,  and  saw  the  professor's  carriage 
come  out  of  the  woods  on  the  opposite  bank, 
and  without  pausing  the  horses  entered  the 
stream,  in  which  they  sank  at  once  to  their 
girths,  then  nearly  to  their  backs.  Mario 
ran  forward,  clasping  her  hands.  The  waves 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  75 

washed  around  her  feet,  and  a  long  surge 
swept  over  them,  completely  covering  her 
delicate  ankles. 

"Oh,  papa!  papa! — no,  no!  do  not  try  to 
cross!"  she  cried,  throwing  hack  her  hood. 
The  rain  drenched  her  hair,  hut  she  did  not 
notice  it.  Her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the 
vehicle  which  the  powerful  horses  dragged 
on.  The  water  now  washed  to  and  fro  over 
their  hacks.  -The  driver  forced  them  on 
with  the  whip.  Marie  wrung  her  hands  and 
moaned.  Then  I  heard  her  crv, 

"  Oh !  thank  God !    He  is  safe !" 

The  carriage  had  indeed  made  the  peril 
ous  passage  without  accident.  The  hacks 
of  the  horses  began  to  emerge,  the  water 
sank  to  their  knees,  and  then  the  vehicle 
mounted  the  sloping  hank  and  gained  firm 
ground. 

We  hastened  to  it,  and  saw  Professor  Pres- 
sensee  reading  tranquilly  by  the  last  light 
of  day.  At  sight  of  his  daughter  he  raised 
his  eyes  from  the  book,  and  exhibited  great 
surprise.  This  expression  was  then  follow 
ed  by  one  of  anxiety. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  you  are  drenched 
with  rain!  Why  expose  yourself  in  this 
manner  ?  Your  health  is  too  delicate  ;  why 
are  you  so  imprudent  ?" 


76  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

"  I  was  so  uneasy  about  yon,  dear  papa,  I 
could  not  stay  in  the  house !" 

"About  me?  There  was  no  ground  for 
that.  But  come,  come,  get  into  the  carriage, 
and  make  haste  and  change  your  clothing.'7 

Marie  got  into  the  vehicle,  and  I  follow 
ed.  The  professor  then  ordered  the  driver 
to  go  at  a  gallop,  and  we  were  soon  at  the 
house.  Marie  at  once  retired  and  put  on 
dry  clothing.  All  her  uneasiness  had  dis 
appeared,  and  she  ran  about  singing  like  a 
bird.  When  she  retired  for  the  night,  how 
ever,  she  coughed  hoarsely,  as  I  remembered 
afterward ;  but  at  the  time  I  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  the  fact,  nor,  I  believe,  did  the  pro 
fessor.  I  gave  him  an  account  of  my  hunt. 
He  congratulated  me  upon  my  success,  and 
then  said, 

"  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  leaving  you  so 
abruptly.  I  am  now  my  own  master  again. 
Would  you  like  to  see  my  den  here,  as  you 
saw  the  one  in  New  York  ?  If  so,  I  will  show 
it  to  you." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  77 


IX. 

I  NEED  not  say  that  I  promptly  assented 
to  Professor  Pressensee's  proposal  to  show 
me  his  "  den.'7  The  chosen  surroundings  of 
a  man  present  an  epitome  of  his  character, 
and  from  the  first  moment  of  my  acquaint 
ance  with  this  singular  personage  he  had 
become  a  study  to  me.  There  was  nothing 
I  so  much  desired  as  to  fathom  his  charac 
ter.  All  that  I  had  been  able  to  discover  in 
reference  to  him  was  curious  and  piquant. 
An  infidel,  a  materialist,  an  absolute  athe 
ist — an  unbeliever  to  the  most  perfect  and 
even  revolting  extent  —  he  was  yet  a  de 
voted  husband  and  father,  a  man  of  prince 
ly  charities,  of  unfaltering  nerve,  and  of 
wonderful  intellect,  as  his  strange  discov 
eries  indicated.  The  most  hidden  arcana 
of  the  material  universe  seemed  to  lie  be 
fore  him  like  an  open  book.  The  farthest 
advanced  positions  reached  by  the  most 
vigorous  minds  seemed  only  the  point  from 
which  this  man  started  upon  his  own  inves 
tigations.  There  was  nothing  whatever  of 


78  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

the  charlatan  about  him.  He  discussed  his 
most  astonishing  inventions  and  discoveries 
with  an  air  of  perfect  indifference,  referring 
to  them  as  mere  matters  of  course.  Patent 
ed  and  disposed  of,  they  would  have  brought 
him  millions.  They  were  not  disposed  of; 
he  had  as  much  money  as  he  wanted,  he 
had  said,  and  preferred  keeping  them  for 
his  private  amusement. 

These  few  words  will  serve  in  some  de 
gree  to  explain  the  interest  I  took  in  this 
man.  I  was  flattered,  too,  by  the  fact  that 
I  seemed  to  be  the  only  human  being  to 
whom  he  spoke  unreservedly  of  his  scien 
tific  investigations  and  exhibited  their  re 
sults.  This  had,  no  doubt,  arisen  from  our 
night  adventure  with  the  footpads  in  New 
York.  I  had  saved  his  life,  he  maintained, 
and  there  was  a  firm  bond  uniting  us.  The 
result  was  an  entire  abandonment  of  all  re 
serve  as  to  his  feelings  and  opinions.  He 
had  shown  me — what  he  had  carefully  con 
cealed  from  his  wife  and  his  daughter — that 
he  was  an  absolute  materialist,  a  hopeless 
disbeliever  in  God  and  the  human  soul.  His 
scientific  discoveries,  as  I  have  said,  were  ex 
posed  before  me  unreservedly.  He  had  ex 
plained  minutely  inventions  in  which  there 
was  untold  wealth ;  and  the  consequence  of 


PKOFESSOR  PKESSENSEE.  79 

all  this  was  an  interest  in  the  individual 
which  had  grown  to  be  absorbing. 

He  led  the  way  up  the  broad  staircase, 
lamp  in  hand,  and  ushered  me  into  the  large 
room  with  the  double  window.  It  extend 
ed  the  whole  width  of  the  central  building, 
and,  like  the  "den"  in  New  York,  was  full 
of  books,  tables,  machines,  and  objects  of 
the  most  curious  description.  In  the  cen 
tre  was  a  marble  table,  flanked  by  easy- 
chairs.  One  object  alone  I  did  not  remem 
ber.  This  was  a  large  square  something 
resembling  the  frame  of  a  picture,  resting 
upon  a  ledge  about  the  height  of  the  chair- 
board  on  one  side  of  the  apartment,  over 
which  was  thrown  a  green  cloth,  which  com 
pletely  draped  and  concealed  it  from  view. 

The  professor  placed  his  lamp,  whose 
brilliant  light  was  tempered  by  a  porcelain 
shade,  upon  the  centre -table,  and  inviting 
me,  by  a  gesture,  to  take  one  of  the  easy- 
chairs,  seated  himself  in  the  other. 

"  You  see,  I  have  arranged  my  study  here 
pretty  much  like  the  one  in  New  York. 
Men,  when  they  are  growing  old,  as  I  am, 
dislike  change  in  their  surroundings,  even 
in  the  position  of  furniture." 

"There  is  little  or  no  change;  but  the 
apartment  is  larger." 


80  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"Yes,  and  I  find  that  a  convenience  in 
carrying  on  rny  experiments,  which  are  now 
a  sort  of  necessity  with  me.  They  make  me 
forget." 

He  spoke  in  Ms  old  "brief,  incisive  voice ; 
wasted  as  his  frame  was,  the  spirit  and  will 
of  the  man  seemed  as  powerful  and,  so  to 
say,  antagonistic  as  ever. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  can  easily  understand 
what  a  fascination  there  is  in  such  occupa 
tions  as  you  pursue.  But  they  have  the  draw 
back — a  great  one,  in  my  estimation — of 
separating  us  too  much  from  e very-day  life, 
from  human  companionship  and  sympathy. " 

"  True ;  and  I  am  on  my  guard  against 
that.  A  purely  intellectual  human  being  is 
a  mere  machine — no  better  than  wood  and 
iron.  When  I  leave  this  den  I  forget  all 
connected  with  it.  The  other  half  of  my 
life  is  Marie." 

The  name  of  the  young  lady  brought  to 
my  mind  the  interviews  with  young  Alford 
and  herself,  and  the  resolution  I  had  formed 
to  endeavor  to  secure,  if  possible,  the  pro 
fessor's  assent  to  his  visits.  After  some  hes 
itation  I  determined  to  "  speak  out "  on  this 
subject,  and  said : 

"  You  have  in  your  Marie,  my  dear  friend, 
the  greatest  of  all  sources  of  happiness — 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  81 

the  very  rest  you  require  after  your  studies. 
But  —  shall  I  speak  plainly,  as  friend  to 
friend  ? — the  day  may  come  when  you  may 
miss  this  resource." 

"  You  mean — " 

"  That  young  ladies  marry.  Much  as  they 
may  be  devoted  to  their  parents,  they  form 
attachments — it  is  the  order  of  nature — and 
then—" 

"  They  leave  us — yes.  That  is  what  you 
were  about  to  say :  and  when  the  time  conies 
I  shall  not  oppose  the  wishes  of  my  child." 

The  opening  was  presented,  and  summon 
ing  all  my  courage,  I  said, 

"Are  you  certain  that  time  has  not  come, 
friend?  I  intrude  upon  your  private  and 
family  affairs ;  you  may  regard  the  intru 
sion  as  unwarranted,  and  resent  it ;  but  are 
you  not  aware  that  little  Miss  Marie  is  a 
woman — that  she  may  have  formed  an  at 
tachment  such  as  you  describe  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  aware  of  it,"  said  Professor 
Pressensee,  coolly,  but  frowning  as  he  spoke. 
"  You  mean  young  Alford  T' 

"You  know  all,  then?" 

"  Certainly  I  know  all.  Ho  has  been  in 
this  neighborhood  for  the  past  month — at  a 
cabin  yonder  on  the  mountain." 

"Ah!  you  know  that,  I  see." 
6 


82  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"Perfectly  well,  and  that  lie  would  hold 
clandestine  correspondence  with  my  daugh 
ter  if  he  were  not  too  honorable — he  seems 
to  be,  at  least — and  Marie  incapable  of  con 
cealing  anything  from  me." 

This  reply  puzzled  me  greatly,  and  I  re 
solved  to  push  forward  straight  to  the  solu 
tion,  if  possible,  of  the  whole  affair. 

"You  say  that  young  Alford  is  honora 
ble,"  I  said,  "and  when  we  were  in  New 
York  you  stated  that  his  means  were  amply 
sufficient  to  justify  him  in  marrying.  What 
is  the  obstacle  ?  It  is  a  friend  who  asks  a 
question  of  a  friend,  not  the  intrusion  of  a 
Paul  Pry." 

The  professor  did  not  reply  for  some  mo 
ments.  His  brows  were  knit,  and  he  seemed 
to  reflect. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  an  intrusion  in  you,"  he 
said,  at  length ;  "  and  I  do  not  object  to  tell 
ing  you  my  motive.  It  is  a  simple  one — 
there  is  no  mystery  whatever.  I  might  say 
that  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  living 
without  my  child — of  giving  up  all  that  is 
left  me  on  earth.  Yes  ;  that  day  will  be  a 
dark  one  to  me.  But  there  are  other  rea 
sons  which  are  less  sentimental.  I  think 
of  my  daughter's  happiness,  not  of  my  own. 
To  explain  my  meaning  it  will  be  necessary 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  83 

to  say  a  few  words  of  my  family  affairs : 
will  they  interest  you  ?" 

"  Nothing  could  interest  me  more." 
"  Here,  then,  friend,  is  the  explanation — a 
very  simple  one,  as  you  will  see,  with  noth 
ing  mysterious  anywhere  about  it.  I  was 
born  in  Alsace,  in  France,  the  only  son  of  a 
laborer.  My  father  and  grandfather  were 
men  of  hard  heads  and  strong  character,  but 
the  social  rank  in  which  they  were  born, 
with  their  poverty,  crushed  them :  they 
were  unable  to  rise  from  it.  As  soon  as  I 
grew  to  be  ten  years  old  I  saw  all  this,  and 
I  resolved  that  low  birth  and  poverty  should 
not  crush  me.  I  worked  in  the  garden  of  a 
nobleman  in  the  neighborhood,  and  earned 
some  money.  With  this  I  bought  books 
and  taught  myself  to  read.  Then  I  taught 
myself  to  write.  Having  learned  the  use 
of  my  tools,  I  began  to  use  them.  I  had 
studied  natural  science  for  five  years,  and 
was  sixteen  when  I  wrote  a  thesis  on  elec 
tricity  for  the  annual  prize  at  Strasburg 
College.  It  was  crowned,  and  I  was  paid  a 
thousand  livres.  I  went  to  a  German  col 
lege,  studied,  graduated  ;  and  at  twenty-five 
was  professor  at  Gottingen.  Then  I  was 
married — to  a  young  Americaine  who  was 
travelling — and  soon  resigned  my  professor- 


84  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

ship,  having  ample  means  to  live,  since  an 
uncle,  who  had  gone  into  trade  at  Dresden, 
and  died  wealthy,  left  me  all  his  money. 
After  resigning,  I  came  to  America. 

"  This  to  explain  whence  I  came.  Now 
to  the  point.  I  had  two  daughters.  The 
eldest,  who  is  dead  many  years,  was  the  treas 
ure  of  my  life.  I  was  wrapped  up  in  her, 
and  dedicated  my  life  to  making  her  hap 
py.  To  have  imagined  the  possibility  of 
any  one  being  unkind  to  her,  or  of  her  suf 
fering  from  neglect  even,  would  have  seem 
ed  to  me  madness.  Well,  to  sum  up  what 
happened.  At  sixteen  she  attracted  the  at 
tentions  of  a  young  man  of  twenty,  in  the 
city  where  at  that  time  we  resided.  He 
was  wealthy,  fine-looking,  modest  in  deport 
ment,  and  seemed  devoted  body  and  soul  to 
my  child.  He  came  to  me  and  told  me  this, 
asking  my  consent  to  his  union  with  my 
daughter.  I  refused  this  assent — she  was 
too  young ;  but  he  replied  that  he  would 
wait,  and  then  he  left  me.  In  spite  of  my 
opposition,  the  affair  was  not  broken  oif. 
When  my  daughter  was  eighteen  and  he 
twenty-two,  he  came  to  me  again,  and  said, 
'  She  is  now  old  enough ;'  and  she  too  came 
and  said,  i  Dear  papa,  I  can  never  love  any 
one  else.'  That  was  what  I  was  forced  to 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  85 

listen  to  month  in  and  month,  out  thencefor 
ward,  and  at  last  I  had  no  further  strength 
to  resist.  The  marriage  took  place — and 
shall  I  tell  you  the  result  ?  Three  years  af 
terward  my  wealthy,  fine-looking,  modest, 
rigidly  moral  and  correct  young  son-in-law 
was  a  pauper,  a  physical  wreck,  and  a  con 
victed  criminal.  He  had  begun  with  that 
devil's  elixir,  absinthe,  and  his  health  went. 
The  roulette-table  finished  him  financially, 
and  he  forged  bills  of  exchange ;  the  forgery 
was  proved  upon  him,  and  he  was  convict 
ed.  He  was  not  hung  —  he  had  courage 
or  cowardice  enough  to  avoid  that :  he  com 
mitted  suicide  in  prison." 

"  A  terrible  history,"  I  said,  greatly  moved 
by  the  gloomy  sternness  of  the  professor's 
voice. 

"Bad  enough,"  he  said;  "but,  bad  as  it 
was,  this  was  not  the  worst.  He  had 
proved  himself  an  utter  brute  to  my  child. 
Commencing  by  harshness  and  neglect,  he 
had  gone  on,  step  by  step,  to  brutal  treat 
ment.  He  had  grossly  insulted  her,  subject 
ed  her  to  every  outrage — ~beatcn  her,  finally ; 
and  from  these  blows  she  died!  Had  I 
known  it  at  the  time,  he  would  have  died 
by  my  hand.  He  spared  me  that — his  own 
hand  took  his  own  worthless  life!" 


86  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

I  could  find  nothing  to  reply  to  this  pain 
ful  history.  The  face  of  Professor  Pressen- 
see  did  not  encourage  any  reply. 

"Well,"  he  added,  "  you  now  know,  friend, 
why  I  do  not  wish  to  risk  a  repetition  of 
these  things  in  my  family.  This  young  Al- 
ford  seems  unexceptionable  to  you ;  for  my 
self,  I  see  in  him  the  most  exact  reproduc 
tion  of  the  brute  who  murdered  my  child 
Elfrida.  Modest?  —  yes,  so  was  the  other. 
Handsome,  deferential,  mauty,  full  of  prot 
estations  of  devotion  ? — yes,  so  was  the  oth 
er.  I  fancy  at  times  the  very  same  look 
in  his  face ;  and  I  am  to  say,  i  Take  my 
Marie/  as  I  said,  <  Take  my  Elfrida !'  No,  I 
thank  you  !  I  am  an  indulgent  father — I 
love  my  daughter  more  than  I  love  my  life 
— I  would  not  say,  'Do  not  leave  your  old 
father  alone  in  this  world ;  he  has  no  life 
but  yours ;  he  would  die  •without  you  near 
him.7  I  would  have  strength  not  to  say 
that,  if  I  saw  her  happiness  assured.  But  I 
have  been  warned.  My  duty  is  to  guard 
my  child ;  and  I  guard  her  from  this  dan 
ger  as  I  should  have  guarded  the  other." 

I  could  not  reply.  Convinced  as  I  was 
that  young  Alford  was  all  that  he  seemed 
to  be,  and  that  Marie's  happiness  could  bo 
intrusted  to  him  with  perfect  confidence,  I 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  87 

bad  no  reasons  to  give  for  so  believing,  ex 
cept  iny  simple  conviction.  With  a  feeling 
of  great  sadness,  I  therefore  gave  up  the 
struggle. 

"Well,  friend/7 1  said,  "perhaps  you  are 
right." 

"  Am  I  so  bad  a  father  ?" 

"  You  are  one  of  the  tenderest  I  have  ever 
met  with.  But  your  daughter  will  marry 
some  day,  and  with  your  approbation,  I 
trust." 

"  I  will  not  oppose  it  for  a  moment.  But 
her  husband  must  be  a  person  of  greater 
age  than  this  youth's — of  settled  character 
— one  to  be  relied  upou." 

"You  are  right;  that  is  the  surest  safe 
guard.  May  I  ask  if  Marie's  feelings  are 
deeply  engaged  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing,"  he  said.  "  She  came 
hither  with  me  without  a  word  of  objection." 

"  Then  you  may  feel  assured  that  she 
loves  you  more  than  all  else.  Let  us  trust 
in  time.  There  is  a  better  phrase,  friend, 
and  I  use  it,  though  it  may  have  no  signifi 
cance  for  you." 

"  What  is  that  ?"  he  said. 

"Trust  in  God." 

"So  be  it,"  he  said.  "After  all,  there 
must  be  a  God." 


88  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

The  words  were  uttered  with  perfect  cool 
ness.  I  turned  my  head  quickly,  with  au 
astonishment  which  he  evidently  noticed. 

"  I  see  you  are  surprised,"  he  said,  in  his 
curt  tones :  "I  held  other  views  once — when 
we  discussed  these  matters  in  New  York. 
Well,  my  views  have  changed.  A  man's 
opinions  alter  as  he  goes  on  in  life,  and  stud 
ies  and  reflects.  Once  I  rejected  the  idea 
of  a  central  spiritual  Soul  of  the  Universe ; 
I  now  accept  it.  What  is  this  Soul — this 
personal  Deity?  As  before,  I  say  I  don't 
know.  What  I  do  know  is,  that  without 
such  a  First  Cause  the  universe  is  a  chaos 
—  a  mere  phantasmagoria.  Our  English 
friends  talk  of  their  flying-mist,  their  pri 
mordial  germ,  and  their  evolution  of  organ 
ic  and  inorganic  life.  It  is  all  a  jumble  of 
inconsequences,  I  grant  you — mere  words, 
words,  words,  as  my  lord  Hamlet  says,  un 
less  there  is  a  God  originating  all.  There 
can  be  no  effect  without  a  cause :  law  neces 
sitates  a  law-giver.  This  law-giver  is  the 
Great  Unknown,  the  Absolute,  as  I  remem 
ber  you  called  him  once  —  the  Thunderer. 
If  he  thunders  by  law,  the  '  thunder  is  yet 
his  voice,'  as  the  poet  tells  us.  Yes,  I  grant 
all  that :  I  believe  in  the  existence  of  this 
supreme  author  of  all  things — this  lord  of 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  89 

the  thunder,  whom  your  Bible  styles  the 
God  of  Vengeance." 

"  He  is  also  a  God  of  love,  friend ;  a  Fa 
ther  who  pities  his  children." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Professor  Pressensee, 
gloomily ;  "  I  only  know  that  he  has  proved 
a  God  of  vengeance — to  me." 

His  brows  were  knit  together,  and  his 
lips  set  close.  , 

"I  only  speak  for  myself.  I  have  no 
right  to  wound  your  susceptibilities.  You 
are  a  Christian — I  am  not.  You  believe  in 
the  Deity's  love — I  can  only  see  his  attri 
bute  of  vengeance.  Is  it  my  denial  of  him 
that  has  drawn  his  vengeance  011  me  ?  I 
know  not.  I  only  know  that  my  life  is  des 
olate.  I  have  lost  all,  or  nearly  all,  that 
attaches  me  to  earth — the  human  being  in 
whose  life  I  lived.  She  was  purity  itself; 
with  profound  religious  faith,  a  soul  that 
seemed  spotless  to  me.  She  is  taken  from 
me — by  the  fiat  of  Him  beyond  the  worlds, 
since  there  was  no  imaginable  physical  rea 
son  for  her  death — a  mere  cold.  You  n6w 
know  what  I  mean.  Yes,  there  is  a  God — 
a  God  of  vengeance.  He  has  crushed  me, 
doubtless  for  my  past  disbelief  in  him.  I 
believe  now,  and  I  add  that  I  fear  him — as 
the  worm  fears  the  thunder-bolt." 


90  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

I  listened  to  these  words  with  painful  in 
terest.  This  man  of  noble  nature  and  pro 
found  intellect  was  groping  in/the  dark — 
staggering  from  point  to  point  in  the  gloom. 
Once  an  absolute  atheist,  attributing  all 
things  to  mere  Force  and  Heat — a  material 
ist  of  materialists,  scoffing  at  the  existence 
of  a  spiritual  Lord  of  the  universe — he  had 
advanced  now  to  the  recognition  of  this 
supreme  Euler  of  all  things,  but  could  see  in 
him  only  the  force  behind  force  —  the  God 
of  vengeance  !  I  could  find  no  words  to  re 
ply,  and  the  professor  added,  coolly : 

"I  speak  plainly,  according  to  my  wont. 
I  have  the  courage  of  my  opinions.  Now 
let  us  speak  of  something  else.  I  know  that 
scientific  subjects  interest  you.  I  will  ex 
hibit  to  you  my  psychometer,  which  is  near 
ly  constructed.  But  first  I  will  show  you 
what  I  meant  when  I  said  that  Marguerite 
was  still  with  me.  That  expression  may 
have  surprised  you,  but  the  explanation  is 
simple." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  91 


X. 

PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE  rose  aiid  went 
to  the  tall  object,  resembling  tlie  frame  of  a 
picture,  which  rested  on  the  ledge  at  one 
side  of  the  room,  draped  with  its  green  cloth. 
This  cloth  he  now  drew  toward  him ;  it  fell, 
and  I  saw  before  me  a  large  painting,  exe 
cuted  with  marvellous  skill. 

It  represented  a  terrace,  with  urns  of 
flowers  at  intervals  on  the  stone  balustrade, 
along  which  ran  a  marble  seat.  Leaning 
back  upon  this  seat,  with  green  foliage 
drooping  above  them,  were  the  most  life 
like  representations  of  Mrs.  Pressensee  and 
Marie.  The  likenesses  were  indeed  quite 
startling.  The  beautiful  mother,  in  her 
graceful  morning  toilet,  with  her  hair  braid 
ed  at  the  back  of  the  head,  and  the  fresh 
face  full  of  smiles,  was  looking  at  her  daugh 
ter's  sweet  young  face,  and  apparently  speak 
ing,  for  the  lips  were  parted.  The  girl  was 
as  fresh  and  bright  as  a  flower  of  the  spring. 
She,  too,  seemed  to  be  speaking,  and  so  life 
like  was  the  whole  painting  that  the  fig 
ures  seemed  about  to  start  from  the  canvas. 


92  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"You  see/7  said  Professor  Pressensee,  in 
tlie  low  tone  which  characterized  him  when 
he  was  greatly  moved.  "Doubtless  you 
recognize  these  portraits." 

"  Perfectly — they  are  wonderful.  What 
great  painter  executed  such  marvels  ?" 

"  It  was  not  a  great  painter — it  was  my 
self.  I  studied  art  in  Italy,  intending  to 
become  a  painter,  but  gave  np  the  idea.  To 
be  brief,  this  is  my  work ;  and  I  had  a  dou- 
ble  design  in  executing  the  painting  —  to 
possess  portraits  of  my  wife  and  child,  and 
with  another  object." 

"Another  object?" 

"  To  have  them  beside  me — to  hear  them 
speak  to  me — after  death,  if  death  came  to 
them  before  it  came  to  me.  Do  you  remem 
ber  what  you  said  one  day  in  New  York  when 
I  showed  you  my  phonometer?  I  had  re 
garded  it  as  a  simple  toy,  the  amusement  of 
an  idle  hour ;  but  you  were  startled  by  it, 
and  saw  capabilities  in  it  which  had  never 
struck  me.  By  its  means  you  at  once  com 
prehended  that  as  the  human  voice  could 
be  recorded — the  voices  of  those  we  love — 
these  voices  might  again  be  heard  when 
the  lips  which  spoke  were  cold  in  death. 
I  jested  then;  afterward  I  reilected:  then 
I  came  to  the  determination  that  I  would 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  93 

utilize  your  idea.  You  understand  now.  I 
painted  this  picture.  Mother  and  daugh 
ter  are  seated,  conversing,  you  see;  and 
what  you  are  about  to  listen  to  is  a  conver 
sation  which  actually  took  place  between 
them.  The  whole  affair  seemed  a  jest  then. 
They  were  full  of  mirth,  humoring  what 
they  possibly  regarded  as  a  caprice  in  me, 
for  I  did  not  speak  of  my  object.  I  thought 
it  might  some  day  be  a  consolation.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  terrible  j  you  shall  form  your 
own  opinion.'7 

He  rolled  the  table  nearer  to  the  picture, 
placed  a  small  screen  behind  the  light  so 
that  it  fell  full  upon  the  painting,  and  then 
went  behind  an  ordinary  fire-screen  which 
stood  near  the  heavy  gilt  frame.  A  few 
moments  afterward  he  reappeared,  and  I 
heard  a  low  whirring  noise,  scarcely  audi 
ble  but  for  the  perfect  stillness  in  the  apart 
ment.  I  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  sound, 
and  was  about  to  refer  to  it,  when  Professor 
Pressensee  held  up  his  finger,  pointing  to 
ward  the  figures  of  his  wife  and  daughter. 
As  he  did  so  I  almost  started,  prepared  as 
I  was  for  what  was  about  to  take  place. 
The  portraits  were  speaking — in  their  actu 
al  voices,  without  the  variation  of  a  single 
tone  or  accent. 


94  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"  Well,  mignonne!"  said  the  beautiful  rnoth- 
er,  "how  bright  you  look  this  morning! 
Where  did  you  purchase  the  roses  in  your 
cheeks  ?" 

"  You  dear  little  mamma !"  replied  the  por 
trait  of  Marie,  "  you  are  entirely  too  much 
given  to  flattery,  which,  in  my  opinion,  is 
the  only  fault  you  have.  Your  own  roses 
are  quite  as  fresh  as  my  own.  Where  is 
papa  ?  Up-stairs,  I  suppose,  with  that  tire 
some  pho — what  does  he  call  it  ?  Can  it 
take  down  what  people  say  ?" 

1  Yes,  indeed." 

1  And  suppose  people  die  ?" 

'Then  you  may  hear  them  speak  again." 

'  But  I  would  not  like  that,  little  mamma." 

1  Well,  we  are  not  going  to  die  just  yet, 
I  hope,  Marie.  We  must  not  think  of  such 
sad  subjects.  The  day  is  too  lovely.  Listen 
how  the  birds  are  singing !  And  there  is 
your  papa's  step — here  he  comes.  Come  out 
on  the  terrace,  dear.  Your  wife  and  daugh 
ter  are  waiting  for  yon.  Do  let  your  ma 
chine  alone — we  are  not  going  to  die !  How 
could  you  live  without  us,  or  we  without 
you  ?  I  am  sure  I  should  come  back ;  and 
when  you  were  busy,  some  night,  I  would 
put  my  arms  around  your  neck  and  kiss 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  95 

Low  silvery  laughter  followed.  It  was 
the  very  same  sound  I  had  heard  from  the 
lips  of  Mrs.  Pressensee  at  her  fireside  in  New 
York,  and  produced  a  strange  effect  on  me. 
I  was  right  in  supposing  that  this  effect 
would  not  be  agreeable.  There  was  some 
thing  weird,  almost  fearful,  in  this  repro 
duction  of  the  voice  of  a  person  long  dead. 
I  cannot  analyze  the  reason  of  this.  I  can 
only  state  the  fact :  and  looking  at  Profess 
or  Pressensee,  I  saw  that  his  sensations  were 
not  more  cheerful  than  my  own.  He  was 
quite  pale,  and  the  roots  of  his  gray  hair 
were  moistened  by  a  cold  perspiration. 

"  Strange,  is  it  not  ?"  he  muttered. 

"Very  strange,"  I  replied ;  "and,  to  be 
frank,  not  very  pleasant." 

"Ah !  it  so  affects  you  too  ?     But  listen !" 

The  portraits  ceased  speaking  after  the 
silvery  laughter,  and  nothing  was  heard  but 
the  low  sound  of  the  clock-work  behind  the 
screen.  Then  the  mother  and  daughter  in 
the  painting  resumed  their  colloquy,  which 
continued  uninterruptedly  for  about  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour.  It  was  animated,  full  of  af 
fection,  and  made  a  hundred  references  to 
little  household  matters — to  Professor  Pres 
sensee — and  the  love  each  member  of  the 
little  family  bore  each  other.  It  was  full  of 


96  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

freshness  and  charm,  but  behind  this  charm 
was  the  abiding  shadow.  One  of  these  hu 
man  beings  who  seemed  to  be  speaking  be 
fore  me  was  long  dead ;  and  when  the  voices 
ceased,  and  the  motion  of  the  clock-work 
was  stopped,  I  experienced  a  feeling  of  re 
lief.  Professor  Pressensee,  still  pale,  and 
deeply  moved,  threw  the  curtain  over  the 
portrait  again,  and  we  returned  to  our  seats. 
He  remained  silent  for  some  time,  evidently 
pondering,  and  then  said, 

"I  remember  saying,  one  day,  that  my 
psychometer  would  prove  of  no  value  to 
anybody ;  it  might  even  prove  undesirable. 
I  now  say  that  I  am  nearly  of  the  same 
opinion  in  regard  to  this  machine.  I  thought 
its  application  to  the  end  you  have  witness 
ed  would  console  me,  and  it  agonizes  me! 
Decidedly  I  will  destroy  it.  The  invention 
shall  be  lost.  Others  may  discover  it.  Shall 
I  do  so  f 7 

"  It  seems  a  pity/'  I  replied,  "  but  I  can 
not  oppose  your  resolution :  I  speak  for 
myself  only.  The  dead  leave  us.  God 
calls  them,  and  they  pass  to  a  better  land. 
Those  they  leave  behind  see  nothing  left 
worth  living  for,  but  the  All-merciful  decrees 
that  this  despair  shall  in  time  become  a  sa 
cred  tenderness  onlv.  Let  the  beloved  dead 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  97 

live  in  the  heart  and  memory :  is  that  not 
enough  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  my  companion  ;  "  and  now  I 
will  show  you  my  other  invention,  which  I 
am  nearly  resolved  to  also  destroy  in  its 
inception." 

"  Your  psychometer  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  still  dream,  then,  that  you  are  able 
to  read  by  mechanical  means  the  thoughts 
which  are  passing  through  the  human  mind  ?" 

"  I  am  well-nigh,  if  not  quite,  certain  of 
it." 

"By  animal  magnetism?" 

"Not  at  all.  Clairvoyance  is  all  jargon  ; 
there  is  no  such  thing.  Wood,  iron,  and 
the  electric  current — the  Thought  of  Matter 
— produce  my  result.  The  machine  is  not 
perfected,  but  you  shall  know  the  principle. 
I  will  demonstrate  it  clearly,  so  that  your 
incredulity  will  vanish." 

Professor  Pressensee  rose.  As  ho  did  so 
steps  were  heard  upon  the  stairs,  hastily  as 
cending.  I  know  not  why  these  hurried 
steps  produced  an  ominous  effect  upon  me. 
Whether  it  was  the  lateness  of  the  hour — it 
was  past  midnight  —  or  the  emotion  I  had 
experienced  in  listening  to  the  portraits 
speaking  from  the  canvas — why  I  could  not 
7 


98  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

tell;  but  these  steps  strangely  affected  my 
nerves,  and  I  could  see  that  my  companion 
also  seemed  to  have  a  presentiment  of  some 
approaching  misfortune. 

"  Listen  !"  he  said.  "  Some  one  is  coming 
up." 

The  steps  reached  the  door,  and  a  tap  was 
heard. 

"  Come  ID,"  said  the  professor,  hastening 
to  the  door.  "Who  is  that,  and  what  is  the 
matter  ?" 

The  door  opened,  and  the  old  house-keep 
er,  who  seemed  to  be  a  foreigner,  entered 
the  room. 

"Well,  Charlotte?"  exclaimed  the  pro 
fessor. 

"Miss  Marie — she  is  malade,  monsieur — 
very  ill,  she  says.  Will  you  come  ?" 

The  professor  hastened  from  the  room 
•without  uttering  a  word,  and  the  woman 
followed  him.  I  was  left  alone,  and,  with  a 
gloom  which  I  could  not  account  for,  leaned 
back  in  my  chair  and  listened.  The  house 
was  perfectly  still,  and  the  large  apartment, 
with  its  singular  objects,  assumed  a  funereal 
appearance.  Slight  puffs  of  air  from  time  to 
time  waved  the  curtain  over  the  tall  paint 
ing,  and  I  almost  expected  that  it  would 
fall,  and  the  portraits  would  again  speak. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  99 

All  at  once  rapid  hoof-strokes  were  heard 
receding  from  the  house.  The  rider  was 
evidently  going  at  full  gallop.  Another 
half  an  hour  passed.  Then  the  house-keep 
er  opened  the  door — so  suddenly  that  I  start 
ed.  In  her  hand  was  a  slip  of  paper  con 
taining  these  words,  in  the  handwriting  of 
rny  host : 

"Do  not  await  my  return,  friend.  My 
daughter  has  been  seized  with  an  oppres 
sion  in  breathing,  and  a  burning  fever, 
clearly  indicating  typhoid  pneumonia — the 
consequence  of  exposure  this  evening.  I 
treat  the  case  while  awaiting  the  physicians 
sent  for.  PRESSENSEE." 

I  read  these  few  lines  with  painful  fore 
bodings,  and  slowly  went  to  my  chamber. 
Was  this  man,  who  had  suffered  so  much,  to 
lose  the  last  object  of  his  love — to  see  the 
last  tie  broken  that  bound  him  to  life  ?  He 
had  said  to  me  formerly  that  he  would  not 
survive  his  wife  and  daughter  if  they  were 
taken  from  him.  One  was  gone :  would  the 
other  follow  now?  and  if  so,  would  he  keep 
his  terrible  resolution  ?  In  the  case  of  an 
ordinary  person  I  should  have  had  no  seri 
ous  apprehensions;  but  this  man  differed 


100  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

from  every  other  I  had  ever  known,  and  rny 
heart  sank  when  I  thought  of  the  possibili 
ty  of  Marie's  dying. 


XI. 

WHEN  Professor  Pressensee  appeared  in 
the  breakfast -room,  where  a  cheerful  fire 
was  burning,  and  the  urn  was  hissing  on 
the  board,  his  pallor  showed  the  result  of 
want  of  sleep  and  uneasiness,  but  his  man 
ner  was  calm. 

"  The  case  is  developed,  friend,"  he  said. 
"My  child  has  pneumonia,  and  in  an  acute 
form,  I  fear.  I  am  something  of  a  physi 
cian,  and  familiar  with  the  symptoms — the 
cheeks  livid,  breathing  oppressed,  and  a 
burning  fever.  It  resulted  from  exposure 
yesterday,  as  I  said.  The  neighboring  phy 
sician  is  absent,  but  I  have  telegraphed  for 
a  friend  in  New  York.  He  will  be  here  in 
sixteen  or  eighteen  hours.  We  will  then 
see." 

He  sat  down  and  made  a  pretence  of  eat 
ing.  Then  he  rose,  and,  begging  me  to  ex 
cuse  him,  went  back  to  his  daughter's  cham 
ber. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.       101 

The  day  passed  on  slowly.  The  rain  had 
ceased  toward  daylight,  and  the  sun  had 
come  out,  bathing  the  variegated  foliage  of 
the  forest  in  its  brilliant  light.  A  slight 
breeze  was  blowing,  and  the  leaves  detach 
ing  themselves  from  the  trees  floated  to  the 
brown  carpet  beneath.  On  the  lawn  in 
front  of  the  house,  some  asters,  autumn 
primroses,  and  other  flowers  moved  in  the 
breaths  of  air  coming  and  going.  The  scene 
was  so  peaceful  and  beautiful  that  it  was 
hard  to  realize  that  behind  the  walls  of  this 
cheerful  country  house  a  girl  more  beauti 
ful  and  attractive  than  leaf  or  flower  was 
wrestling  with  a  burning  fever  which  might 
destroy  her. 

The  thought  brought  a  pang.  I  was  sin 
cerely  attached  to  Marie,  and  my  heart  bled 
for  her  and  her  father.  I  knew  bow  tender 
hearted  this  apparent  cynic  was — how  his 
life  was  bound  up  in  his  child — and  pitied 
his  suffering  from  the  very  bottom  of  my 
heart.  Another  person,  too,  I  felt,  must 
soon  know  the  misfortune  which  had  fallen 
on  the  peaceful  home  —  young  Alford;  and 
here,  too,  was  a  breast  which  the  arrow 
would  pierce.  Altogether,  that  morning 
was  one  of  the  most  gloomy  I  have  ever 
spent. 


102      PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

Late  in  the  day  Professor  Pressensee  re 
appeared.  Going  to  the  window,  he  looked 
out  on  the  road. 

"  It  is  nearly  time  for  him  to  arrive/7  he 
muttered. 

"  You  mean  your  friend  from  New  York  ?" 

"  Yes.  The  telegram  was  despatched  be 
fore  one  last  night :  it  is  now  six.  To  the 
Railway  station  is  only  forty  minutes,  with 
the  horses  at  a  gallop." 

"You  are  sure  of  his  arrival?" 

"As  sure  as  I  am  that  I  am  living." 

"And  Marie?" 

"  There  is  no  change.  The  disease  is  fully 
developed.  She  is  extremely  ill." 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  looking  out  of  the 
window. 

"  Good  God !"  he  muttered,  "  why  is  he  not 
here  by  this  time  ?" 

"  There  is  the  carriage,"  I  said. 

It  was  seen  emerging  from  the  woods,  and 
came  on  with  the  horses  at  a  gallop.  Pro 
fessor  Pressensee  met  it  at  the  door,  and  a 
man  with  gray  hair,  whom  I  recognized  as 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  physicians  of 
New  York,  got  out  of  the  vehicle.  The  pro 
fessor  grasped  his  hand,  drew  him  in,  and 
conducted  him  to  Marie's  chamber. 

Oppressed  by  all  these  painful  scenes,  I 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.      103 

put  on  my  hat  and  walked  out  to  breathe 
the  fresh  air.  The  suu  was  just  about  to  set, 
and  threw  long  shadows  across  the  sward, 
which  was  still  green.  I  went  along  slow 
ly,  in  the  gloomiest  of  moods,  and  had  just 
reached  the  edge  of  the  woods,  when  I  heard 
my  name  repeated,  and  raised  my  eyes,  which 
had  been  fixed  upon  the  ground.  Young 
Alford  was  standing  before  me,  half  hidden 
by  the  long,  drooping  boughs  of  an  oak,  and 
now  came  forward  quickly. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  he  said.  "  A  ser 
vant  left  at  full  gallop  last  night,  between 
twelve  and  one." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?';  I  said. 

"  I  was  here.  I  am  here  every  night.  I 
can  see  her  light,  at  least.  But  she  is  sick. 
Some  misfortune  has  happened  !" 

It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  conceal  any 
thing,  and  I  told  him  of  Marie's  illness,  and 
of  the  physician's  arrival. 

"I  saw  and  recognized  him,"  he  said. 
"  Oh,  my  God !  Marie  is  not  very  ill  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  so.  It  is  hard  to  tell  you 
that,  but  it  is  best." 

His  head  sank,  and  I  could  see  that  it  re 
quired  all  his  self-control  to  suppress  a  burst 
of  tears. 

"Oh,  I  love  her  so!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a 


104  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

broken  voice.  "  If  she  dies,  what  will  I  do ! 
And  she  loves  me!  I  must  see  her  again. 
I  cannot  live  without  seeing  her !" 

I  listened  to  this  honest  burst  of  emotion 
from  the  youth  with  painful  sympathy.  His 
anxiety  had  broken  down  every  barrier,  and 
I  saw  that  he  loved  her  more  than  I  had 
supposed.  I  attempted  to  console  him  by 
saying  that  Marie's  illness  might  be  less 
alarming  than  was  feared,  but  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  Professor  Pressensee  has  telegraphed  for 
one  of  the  first  physicians  of  New  York,  and 
he  is  here — in  fifteen  hours — " 

He  stopped,  shaking  his  head  hopelessly. 
I  could  only  renew  my  attempts  to  make  him 
a  little  more  cheerful,  but  they  were  quite 
useless.  I  then  urged  him  to  go  back  to  the 
cabin  in  the  mountain  and  lie  down,  for  I 
could  see  that  he  was  quite  exhausted.  If 
he  would  return  in  the  morning,  he  would 
fiud,  under  a  stone  which  I  pointed  out,  a 
note  from  myself  informing  him  of  Ma 
rie's  condition.  At  this  he  quickly  caught. 
Would  I  write  the  note  to-night,  before  I  re 
tired?  he  asked.  I  promised,  and  returned 
to  the  house  just  at  nightfall,  having  seen 
him  set  out  toward  the  mountain. 

Late  in  the  evening  Professor  Pressensee 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  105 

made  his  appearance  in  the  drawing-room. 
His  face  had  the  calm  and  firm  expression 
which  characterizes  men  of  strong  will  in 
moments  of  trial. 

«  Well?'7 1  said. 

"  Typhoid  pneumonia  of  the  worst  type," 
he  said,  calmly.  "  The  physician  now  at 
tending  her  will  do  all  that  can  be  done. 
If  she  dies  I  shall  not  long  survive.  God 
will  decide." 

I  looked  at  him  attentively,  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  observe  it,  and  went  to  the  man 
tel-piece. 

"  I  neglected  to  give  you  this  letter,  friend, 
which  arrived  this  evening — forwarded,  I 
observe,  to  the  neighboring  town." 

I  took  the  letter,  which  had  "  in  haste " 
on  the  envelope,  and  opened  it.  A  blow  had 
come  to  me  too — my  younger  brother  was 
dangerously  sick,  and  sent  for  rue,  A  post 
script  gave  me  the  consoling  intelligence 
that  his  recovery  was  not  regarded  as  at  all 
hopeless;  but  I  resolved,  of  course,  to  re 
turn  at  once,  and  made  every  preparation 
to  set  out  at  daylight. 

When  about  to  retire,  my  promise  to  young 
Alford  recurred  to  me,  and  I  wrote  a  few 
lines  informing  him  that  Marie's  condition 
remained  the  same.  This  paper  I  folded, 


106  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

and  going  to  the  spot  where  I  had  conversed 
with  him,  raised  the  stone  agreed  upon  and 
placed  it  beneath.  As  I  went  back  toward 
the  house  I  turned  my  head.  What  I  had 
expected  took  place.  The  moon  was  shin 
ing,  and,  penetrating  through  the  boughs  of 
the  large  oak,  fell  upon  a  dusky  figure  which 
moved  toward  the  stone  beneath  which  I 
had  concealed  the  note.  It  was  young  Al- 
ford,  who,  I  had  felt  perfectly  certain,  would 
not  wait  until  morning  for  news  of  Marie. 

At  daylight  I  was  in  the  saddle,  and  ex 
changed  a  last  grasp  of  the  hand  with  Pro 
fessor  Pressensee,  who  had  not  taken  off  his 
clothes  during  the  night. 

"  She  is  better,  I  trust  I" 

"  No  better — no  worse.  God  be  thanked, 
at  least,  for  that  I" 

It  was  the  second  or  third  time  in  twelve 
hours  that  he  had  pronounced  the  word  God. 
Making  him  promise  to  write  to  me,  I  then 
set  forward,  thinking  now  only  of  my  own 
trouble — my  brother's  illness. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  107 


XL 

I  SPEEDILY  reached  home,  and  found  my 
brother  very  ill.  For  more  than  a  month 
I  watched  at  his  bedside,  and  then  had 
the  happiness  of  seeing  him  slowly  gain 
strength.  Soon  he  became  convalescent 
and  out  of  danger,  and  I  returned  to  that 
work  in  the  world  which  a  man  has  before 
him  always. 

I  had  heard  repeatedly  from  Professor 
Pressensee.  Marie's  condition  was  un 
changed.  Her  illness  promised  to  be  a  long 
one,  but  I  could  not  help  hoping  that  she 
would  be  spared  to  the  poor  father,  whose 

life  seemed  wrapped  up  in  her.  Dr. , 

he  informed  me,  had  returned  to  New  York, 
where  his  patients  demanded  his  presence, 
but  had  made  a  second  visit  to  Virginia. 
He  had  then  been  called  back  once  more 
to  New  York,  but  had  promised  to  return 
again  toward  Christmas.  Could  I  not  come 
to  see  him  at  that  time,  when  I  should  prob 
ably  have  a  few  days'  leisure  ?  Marie  had 
asked  for  me  frequently,  and  seemed  to  have 
something  which  she  wished  to  say  to  me. 


108  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

This  latter  intimation  reached  rue  about 
the  middle  of  December,  and  I  determined 
to  accept  the  invitation,  and  repeat  my  visit 
to  the  house  in  the  mountain.  I  had  very 
little  doubt  as  to  Marie's  motive  in  wishing 
to  see  me.  I  was  the  only  person  to  whom 
she  could  speak  unreservedly  of  her  feelings 
in  connection  with  young  Alford,  and  I  had 
not  the  heart  to  deny  what  she  asked.  A 
few  days  before  Christmas,  therefore,  I  set 
out  by  railway,  reached  the  station  nearest 
to  Professor  Pressensee's,  and,  as  he  had  been 
notified,  found  his  carriage  waiting,  and  was 
soon  in  sight  of  the  house. 

The  snow  was  nearly  a  foot  deep,  the 
whole  landscape  bleak  and  desolate.  The 
trees,  once  so  resplendent  in  their  autumn 
draperies,  were  bare  and  dismal -looking 
skeletons ;  and  no  sound  disturbed  the  si 
lence  but  the  mournful  sigh  of  the  wind  in 
the  evergreens,  bending  under  their  snow 
burdens. 

At  the  front  door  Professor  Pressensee 
met  and  greeted  me,  conducting  me  to  the 
cheerful  drawing-room.  During  my  brief 
absence  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in 
him — -not  so  much  in  his  face,  which  was 
only  a  little  paler  and  thinner,  as  in  his 
manner.  I  have  described  him  as  he  ap- 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  109 

peared  when  I  first  knew  Mm,  and  on  my 
recent  visit.  His  expression  had  been  firm, 
defiant  —  antagonism  incarnate.  Nothing 
better  expressed  the  man  at  that  time  than 
the  words  he  had  breathed  into  his  singular 
invention, the  phonometer:  "I am  Pressensee 
— I  stand  on  that /"  Now  the  man  was  wholly 
altered.  His  glance  was  as  firm  and  collect 
ed — as  indicative  as  before  of  powerful  will — 
but  an  unwonted  softness  and  patience  was 
the  controlling  expression  of  his  face,  and  his 
voice  had  become  mild  and  gentle. 

"  Tell  me,  first  of  all,  about  Marie,"  I  said. 
"  She  is  better,  I  trust  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"No  better  —  no  worse,  perhaps.  I  say 

perhaps,  for  Dr. ,  who  has  just  arrived, 

may  be  concealing  something  from  me." 

"  Concealing  something  ?" 

"Physicians  regard  that  as  their  duty 
sometimes.  To  say  to  a  father, '  Your  child 
is  going  to  die,'  is  hard.  Why  do  so  ?  they 
argue.  The  agony  will  come :  why  hasten 
it?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  hope  for  a  happier  result  in 
Marie's  case,  my  dear  friend.  You  have  the 
consolation,  at  least,  of  knowing  that  Dr. 

will  do  all  that  can  be  done.  There  is 

his  step,  I  think." 


110  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

A  measured  tread  was  heard  without,  and 
a  tall  man  of  about  sixty,  gray-haired,  quiet 
in  manner,  and  dressed  in  black,  came  into 
the  room.  I  was  introduced,  and  he  bow 
ed  courteously.  Professor  Pressensee  had 
glanced  quickly  at  him — it  was  the  look  of 
the  father  thinking  eternally  of  his  child — 
and,  in  response  to  the  look,  Dr. said : 

"Miss  Pressensee  has  fallen  asleep  with 
out  opiates,  I  am  glad  to  say.  There  is  no 
one  with  her." 

Professor  Presseusee  at  once  went  out  of 
the  apartment,  with  a  few  words  of  apology, 
and  I  was  left  alone  with  the  physician. 

"A  frank  question,  doctor/7 1  said.  "  I  am 
greatly  attached  to  this  poor  child:  what 
you  say  will  be  said  to  me  alone — can  she 
live  ?" 

Dr. mused  for  a  moment.  Then  he 

said,  quietly : 

"  It  is  a  remarkable  case — not  the  disease, 
that  is  a  common  one — the  case.  I  am 
aware,  sir,  that  you  are  an  old  friend  of 
Professor  Pressensee,  who  is  also  a  valued 
friend  of  my  own,  and  I  will  speak  plainly." 

"  Do  so,  doctor,  I  entreat." 

"Miss  Presseusee  has  an  aggravated  at 
tack  of  typhoid  pneumonia.  The  case  has 
been  lingering,  but  must  soon  reach  its  cri- 


PHOFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  Ill 

sis.  This  is  the  twenty-second  of  December. 
In  three  days  everything  will  be  decided." 

"In  three  days?" 

"  It  will  not  be  longer." 

"You  mean  that  in  three  days  she  will  be 
certain  to  die  or  certain  to  live  ?" 

"  Humanly  speaking." 

"But  you  are  a  master  in  your  profession 
— famous !"  I  exclaimed ;  "  can  you  do  noth 
ing  V 

"Nothing,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "There 
is  something  upon  this  poor  girl's  mind 
which  co-operates  with  the  disease  to  ex 
haust  her  strength.  A  feather  will  turn  the 
balance.  What  this  something  is  I  cannot 
discover." 

I  was  about  to  reply,  when  Professor 
Pressensee  entered  the  room  and  advanced 
straight  to  me. 

"  Marie  asks  for  you,"  he  said.  "  She  is 
just  awake.  I  informed  her  that  you  had 
arrived,  and  she  begged  me  to  bring  you  to 
her  chamber." 

I  rose  at  once,  and  accompanied  the  pro 
fessor  to  a  chamber  in  one  of  the  wings,  the 
door  of  which  was  opened  by  the  old  ser 
vant,  Charlotte.  It  was  evidently  that 
which  Marie  always  occupied,  and,  with  its 
little  feminine  adornments,  resembled  the 


112  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

nest  of  a  bird.  Heavy  curtains  at  the  win- 
clows  nearly  shut  out  the  light,  and  on  a 
small  bed  in  one  corner,  with  a  snow-white 
covering,  Marie  was  lying.  She  was  very 
much  wasted,  and  a  feverish  flush  burned  in 
her  cheeks. 

I  came  to  her  side,  and  the  poor  girl  smiled 
sweetly,  holding  out  her  thin  hand.  I 
thought  I  knew  what  she  wished  to  say  to 
me,  and  that  she  wished  to  say  it  to  me 
alone.  How  would  she  effect  that?  The 
professor  came  to  her  relief,  either  acciden 
tally  or  deliberately.  Informing  me  that 

he  wished  to  say  a  word  to  Dr. ,  ho 

looked  with  deep  tenderness  at  his  daugh 
ter,  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  and  left 
the  room. 

I  sat  down  beside  the  young  lady,  and 
said, 

"You  wished  me  to  come,  Marie,  and  you 
see  I  have  coine." 

"Oh  yes  —  I  cannot  thank  you  enough. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  said, 
faintly. 

"I  know  what  it  is — or,  at  least,  to  what 
person  it  refers." 

A  quick  color  came  to  her  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper  almost,  and 
speaking  rapidly.  "I  knew  you  would  uu- 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.       113 

derstaud.  There  is  no  one  I  can  speak  to 
but  yon.  I  will  die  soon,  I  think.  Will  you 
take  him  a  message  ?  I  do  not  know  where 
he  is— " 

She  stopped,  turning  away  her  head. 

"  Wherever  he  is,  he  shall  have  your  mes 
sage,  Marie.  I  promise  you,  on  my  honor." 

"  I  know  you  will  keep  your  promise,"  she 
murmured.  "What  I  wish  you  to  tell  him 
is  that  I — I — he  was  wrong  if  he  thought  I 
did  not — " 

The  poor  child  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair.  She  could  not  end  the  sentence. 

"  You  mean  I  must  tell  him  that  you  love 
him  ;  do  you  not,  Marie  "P 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "oh  yes!  that  I 
loved  him,  and  love  him  more  than  ever 
now  when — when  I  must  leave  him!  Oh, 
I  cannot  help  it!  He  loves  me  so  much! 
Papa  does  not  like  him;  but  there  can  be 
no  harm  in  telling  him  what  I  say.  Oh, 
poor  Henry!  and  poor,  poor  papa!  They 
will  break  their  hearts !  but  it  will  be  easier 
for  me  to  go  if  I  know  he  wrill  get  my  mes 
sage." 

I  was  deeply  affected  by  these  faltering 
words,  but  an  expression  of  faintness  upon 
the  girl's  face  warned  me  that  I  ought  not 
to  prolong  the  interview, 
b 


114  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

"  Once  more,  Marie,"  I  said,  "  wherever  he 
is,  he  shall  be  told  what  you  wish.  And  now 
you  must  rest — this  excitement  will  injure 
you." 

"I  am  not  excited,"  she  said,  growing 
suddenly  calm.  "  I  feel  as  if  a  great  weight 
had  been  lifted  from  my  breast." 

She  turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  me 
with  a  smile  of  exquisite  sweetness. 

"How  good  it  is  to  have  a  friend  like 
you!"  she  whispered,  looking  at  me  with  her 
confiding  eyes.  "  It  was  so  kind  in  you  to 
come !" 

As  she  spoke  Professor  Pressensee  came  in, 
and  Marie  held  out  her  arms  toward  him. 

"Dear  old  papa!"  she  said,  returning  his 
kiss,  "  you  are  very  good  to  your  little  Ma 
rie  !" 

I  rose  and  quietly  went  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  the  father  and  daughter  with  their 
arms  around  each  other.  When,  half  an 
hour  afterward,  Professor  Pressensee  came 
into  the  drawing-room,  his  face  was  wet 
with  tears. 

"You  must  have  said  something  to  cheer 
my  poor  child,"  he  said,  in  his  deep  voice. 
"It  is  a  long  time  since  she  has  looked  so 
happy." 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  115 


XII. 

I  RETIRED  about  ten,  but,  in  spite  of  the 
fatigue  of  travel,  could  not  close  my  eyes. 
I  could  see  nothing,  think  of  nothing,  but 
the  poor  girl  in  her  little  white  bed,  soon,  in 
all  probability,  to  be  her  death-bed. 

The  crisis  of  her  disease  was  near,  and 
she  had  a  malady  of  the  mind  added  to  her 
physical  malady.  The  two  together  would 
probably  kill  her ;  but,  by  curing  one,  could 
I  not  disarm  the  other,  effecting  more  with 
all  my  ignorance  than  the  trained  physician 
could,  with  all  his  science  and  genius?  I 
shrunk,  at  first,  from  the  responsibility  of 
what  I  was  about  to  undertake,  but  ended 
by  forming  a  fixed  resolution.  Then  I  fell 
asleep,  and  was  waked  by  the  glare  of  the 
sunshine  on  the  snow  without. 

After  breakfast  I  requested  Professor  Pres- 
seusee  to  order  a  riding-horse  to  be  saddled, 
as  I  wished  to  ride  out.  He  promptly  did 
so,  without  asking  me  any  questions.  The 
horse  as  promptly  made  his  appearance  at 
the  door;  and  in  an  hour,  after  toiling 


116  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

through  the  deep  snow,  I  was  at  the  cabin 
of  my  friend,  the  old  hunter. 

I  was  as  certain  that  I  should  find  young 
Alford  there  as  I  was  of  ray  own  existence, 
and  I  was  not  mistaken.  Opening  the  door, 
I  saw  him  seated  before  the  fire,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands.  At  the  sound  of  the  opening  door 
his  head  rose.  I  saw  before  me  a  pale  and 
wasted  face,  and  his  dull  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  me  with  a  vague  stare.  Suddenly  rec 
ognizing  me,  he  rose  quickly  to  his  feet,  and 
a  deep  sob,  which  he  was  plainly  unable  to 
suppress,  shook  him  from  head  to  foot 

An  hour  afterward  I  set  out  on  my  return, 
reached  Professor  Pressensee's,  and  request 
ed  him  to  grant  me  a  private  interview.  He 
looked  at  me  with  an  air  of  astonishment, 
but  said  nothing;  leading  the  way  to  his 
"den"  on  the  second  floor,  where  a  bright 
fire  was  burning. 

As  soon  as  I  entered  the  room  I  was  struck 
by  the  change  in  its  whole  appearance.  On 
my  former  visit,  every  object  had  indicated 
that  the  apartment  was  the  chosen  resort 
of  the  savant,  the  physiologist,  and  the  dev 
otee  of  material  science.  Machines,  chemi 
cals,  human  skulls — all  these  had  littered  the 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  117 

tables,  the  chairs,  tlie  book-cases,  producing 
anything  but  an  agreeable  impression  upon 
the  visitor.  Now  all  was  changed.  No  ma 
chines  or  bottles  were  visible,  and  the  skulls 
grinning  from  the  summit  of  the  bookcases 
had  disappeared.  The  whole  apartment  was 
bright  and  cheerful.  I  looked  around  me 
with  great  surprise;  but  what  especially 
attracted  my  attention  was  a  picture  filling 
nearly  the  whole  space  above  the  fireplace. 
It  represented  a  man  in  the  dress  of  a  pil 
grim,  slowly  ascending  a  narrow  and  rugged 
path  which  led  along  the  verge  of  a  preci 
pice.  On  the  right  rose  a  wooded  moun 
tain  ;  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  apparent 
ly  hundreds  of  feet  below,  the  sea  dashed 
its  foam  over  jagged  rocks,  upon  which  a 
single  false  step  threatened  to  hurl  the  pil 
grim.  He  went  on,  nevertheless,  with  an 
assured  step,  supported  and  directed  in  his 
course  by  another  figure,  hovering  above 
him  in  the  air.  It  was  the  figure  of  an  an 
gel  in  white  robes,  with  bare  arms,  one  of 
which  was  passed  around  the  pilgrim,  while 
with  the  other  the  angel  pointed  to  a  star 
shining  serenely  in  the  depths  of  heaven 
before  them.  The  angelic  face  was  turned 
toward  the  wayfarer  with  an  expression  of 
exquisite  affection,  and  was  that  of  Mrs. 


118  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

Pressensee.  The  face  of  the  pilgrim  was 
half  turned  also  toward  his  guardian  angel. 
It  was  the  face  of  Professor  Pressensee. 

I  stood  looking  at  the  picture  in  silence. 
Then  I  turned  to  my  host  and  said, 

"  I  understand.    Who  painted  this  ?7' 

"It  is  my  own  work — done  in  New  York 
some  months  since.  I  sent  for  it.  It  has 
just  arrived." 

"I  knew  your  skill,"  I  said;  "I  did  not 
know  your  genius.  To  speak  honestly,  friend, 
this  picture  astonishes  and  affects  me.  The 
conception  is  as  striking  —  more  striking, 
even — than  the  execution.  The  two  worlds 
touch  in  it — the  world  of  the  dead  and  the 
world  of  the  living.  The  woman  you  loved, 
and  who  has  left  you,  has  become  your  guar 
dian  angel.  Her  arm  guides  you  on  your  way 
through  life,  preventing  you  from  falling; 
her  smile  shines  on  you ;  her  hand  points 
you  to  the  star  of  Hope !" 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"The  hope  of  reunion  with  her  in  anoth 
er  world  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  believe,  then,  in  the  immortality  of 
the  Soul — in  future  recognition  ?" 

"Yes.  From  the  moment  that  a  Soul  ex 
ists  it  is  eternal,  from  the  very  nature  of 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  119 

its  being,  and  retains  its  individuality  and 
identity.  I  shall  see  and  recognize  this  one, 
as  I  recognized  it  in  the  body." 

He  turned  round  and  pointed  to  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  room.  I  looked  in  the  di 
rection  of  his  extended  finger,  and  saw  the 
picture  representing  his  wife  and  daughter 
hanging  from  the  opposite  wall.  The  beau 
tiful  faces  smiled  from  the  canvas,  and  I 
looked  at  them  with  deep  feeling.  Turning 
toward  Professor  Presseusee,  I  saw  that  his 
eyes  too  were  fixed  upon  them  in  silence. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  at  length,  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  believe  in  the  existence  of  an  immate 
rial,  spiritual,  and  consequently  an  immor 
tal  Soul,  as  I  once  believed  that  Force — 
Heat — was  the  great  motor  of  the  universe. 
I  have  the  courage  of  my  opinions.  The 
pride  of  consistency  does  not  weigh  with  ine 
a  feather.  Material  Force  cannot  account 
for  the  phenomenon  called  life.  What  you 
said  one  day  was  true.  The  phonometer 
repeated  it  to  me  not  once,  but  a  thousand 
times — l  Behind  Heat  is  Law — behind  Law 
is  the  Absolute  ;  this  Absolute  is  the  central 
Soul  of  the  Universe.'  It  must  be  a  Soul. 
Force  must  have  an  origin,  and  this  origin 
must  be  a  thinking,  spiritual  Being,  since 
Force  is  controlled  by  Law,  and  Law  pre- 


120       PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

supposes  Thought.  My  psychometer  was  a 
delusion.  Thought  is  not  heat — cannot  be 
measured  with  a  tape-line.  Heat  is  materi 
al — Thought  spiritual.  It  is  Thought  that 
originated,  that  directs,  and  controls  all 
things  through  Law ;  and  this  Thought  is 
the  Thought  of  a  personal,  an.  omnipotent 
Deity— of  God." 

The  professor  paused  for  a  moment — then 
he  went  on : 

"  I  said  that  to  myself — then  all  followed 
fatally.  There  is  a  God,  I  said — what  are 
Ms  attributes  ?  He  has  created  me.  Why  ? 
I  do  not  know.  What  I  know  is  that  he* 
has  crushed  me,  and  I  see  that  lie  is  what 
he  is  called,  a  God  of  Vengeance,  since  at 
one  blow  he  has  swept  away  one-half  of  my 
life.  This  was  what  I  said  to  myself.  Well, 
I  no  longer  say  it.  I  think — or  think  that 
I  think — I  see  more  justly.  Yes,  the  attri 
bute  of  Vengeance  is  his,  but  another  attri 
bute  co-exists  with  it.  He  made  man  in  his 
own  image,  having  his  attributes  of  thought, 
free-will,  the  capacity  to  love ;  and  I  no  lon 
ger  ask  myself  why  man  was  made.  God  is 
love,  as  well  as  vengeance.  It  is  the  neces 
sity  of  love  that  it  should  have  something 
to  love.  Thus  man  was  created  with  the 
universe  to  administer  to  him,  as  the  object 


PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE.  121 

of  the  Almighty's  love ;  and  as  love  must 
be  free  to  choose  its  object  or  reject  it,  man 
was  given,  free-will,  the  power  to  choose ; 
hence  the  whole  scheme  of  redemption." 

"You  believe,  then,  in  redemption?" 

"  Yes ;  it  follows  as  an  inevitable  truth. 
The  love  of  the  supreme  Deity  persisted  in 
spite  of  man's  rebellion.  The  atonement 
restored  all  things — man  had  only  to  em 
brace  it.  I  believe  that  with  my  brain  and 
my  heart,  as  I  once  believed  in  material 
Force.  With  death  the  soul  passes  to  an 
other  universe  of  happiness  or  misery,  not 
into  earth  or  air.  My  wife  is  dead  :  I  shall 
rejoin  her,  I  trust.  My  daughter  may  die  : 
I  shall  see  her  too — beyond." 

He  sat  down  and  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing, 
The  color  which  had  come  to  his  face  as  he 
spoke  slowly  faded.  Then  a  deep  sigh — 
weary,  piteous,  almost  despairing — issued 
from  his  lips. 

" This  is  true"  he  muttered,  " as  true  as 
Truth  itself;  but  — if  she  dies!  I  shall  not 
live  after  that." 

"Friend,"  I  said. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  me.  His 
eyes  were  bathed  in  tears. 

"Marie  will  not  die,  if  something  that  op 
presses  her  poor  heart  is  removed." 


122  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

"  Something  that  oppresses  her  heart  ?" 

"  Her  malady  is  a  physical  one,  but  men 
tal  distress  aggravates  it,  wearing  away  her 
strength  to  resist  the  disease  she  suffers 
from.  What  is  necessary  is  to  remove  this 
distress.  I  do  not  know  this  so  much  sis  feel 
it." 

"Ah!"  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
"  do  you  think  that  ?  Can  it  be  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "I  am  certain  of  it.  I 
have  reflected  deeply,  and  have  a  distinct 
course  of  action  to  propose  to  you.  I  believe 
it  to  be  the  only  means  of  saving  Marie.  It 
was  to  speak  of  it  that  I  requested  this  in 
terview." 

"Let  us  speak  of  it,"  he  said,  slowly,  fix 
ing  his  eyes  upon  me. 


XIII. 

I  HAVE  thought  it  unnecessary  to  detain 
the  readers  of  my  narrative  by  presenting 
the  details  of  my  interviews  with  young  Al- 
ford  and  Professor  Pressensee,  the  result  of 
which  will  now  be  recorded. 

Marie  remained  in  very  much  the  same 
condition  as  that  in  whicli  I  had  seen  her, 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  123 

until  the  afternoon  of  Christmas-day.  Her 
fever  continued,  and  a  second  brief  inter 
view  which  I  held  with  her  on  the  morning 
of  this  day  convinced  me  that  she  still  had 
some  cause  of  sadness,  of  which  she  did  not 
speak ;  and  this  sadness,  whose  cause  was 
known  to  me,  I  felt  convinced,  co-operated 
with  the  disease  to  prey  upon  her  strength. 

The  moment  had  arrived,  I  saw  plainly, 
to  carry  out  my  design,  which  had  been  ap 
proved  both  by  Professor  Pressensee  and 
Dr. .  Leaving  them  in  the  drawing- 
room,  I  proceeded  to  Marie's  chamber,  en 
tered,  and  found  her,  as  had  been  agreed 
upon,  alone.  The  apartment  had  the  same 
air  about  it  —  an  air  of  feminine  sweetness 
and  innocence.  One  object  only  I  observed 
which  I  had  not  observed  before — a  small 
evergreen  "Christmas-tree"  in  one  corner 
of  the  chamber,  the  boughs  decorated  with 
bright  objects  and  small  wax  tapers. 

I  approached  Marie's  bed,  and  she  held  out 
her  thin  hand  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  You  were  looking  at  my  Christmas-tree," 
she  said.  "Papa  fixed  it  for  me.  We  al 
ways  have  a  Christmas-tree.  Isn't  it  pret 
ty?" 

"  Exquisite !"  I  said,  with  a  cheerful  smile. 
"  Who  would  have  supposed  that  an  old 


124  PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE. 

man  of  science  like  your  father  had  so  much 
taste !  Look  at  that  gilt  star  on  the  bough 
in  front.  That  is  the  star  of  hope,  dear 
Marie !  You  are  going  to  get  well  at  once 
now  ;  and  shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?" 

"Aaeeretf" 

"  I  have  actually  had  the  courage  to  at 
tack  your  papa  on  the  subject  of  our  young 
friend  Mr.  Alford,  and  he  declares  that  he 
has  not  the  least  objection  to  your  accepting 
that  young  gentleman,  if  the  arrangement 
is  perfectly  agreeable  to  you." 

A  sudden  color  came  to  her  face,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  light. 

"  Oh !"  she  murmured ;  and  then,  in  a 
whisper  almost,  she  added,  "Are  you  in 
earnest  ?" 

"Certainly  I  am  in  earnest.  Your  papa 
is  convinced  that  he  was  wrong  in  opposing 
you  young  people — in  meddling  with  your 
private  affairs.  He  and  our  young  friend 
are  quite  devoted  to  each  other  all  at  once ; 
and  if  you  doubt  what  I  say,  Marie,  there  is 
an  extremely  easy  means  of  proving  it.  There 
is  no  objection  whatever,  if  you  do  not  ob 
ject,  to  your  seeing  young  Mr.  Alfurd,  and 
hearing  it  from  his  own  lips." 

In  spite  of  every  effort  to  control  herself, 
the  poor  child  could  not  suppress  the  happy 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.       125 

light  which  suddenly  came  to  her  eyes.  Her 
blushes  deepened,  but  a  single  glance  told 
me  that  what  I  had  said  had  acted  like  a 
cordial  upon  her  frame.  Her  faint  objection 
was  very  faint  indeed,  and  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  afterward  young  Alford,  who  was 
waiting,  entered  the  apartment.  I  retired, 
leaving  no  one  but  the  deaf  old  family  ser 
vant  Charlotte  in  the  apartment  with  them, 
and  went  down  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
for  about  half  an  hour  no  one  uttered  a  word. 
The  doctor  then  rose. 

"  I  think  the  young  people  have  had  time 
enough/7  he  said.  "The  risk  of  excitement 
must  be  avoided." 

He  went  out  of  the  room  as  he  spoke,  in 
the  direction  of  Marie's  chamber,  and  both 
Professor  Pressensee  and  myself  followed 
him,  to  which  he  had  said  there  was  no  ob 
jection.  We  were  met  on  the  way  by  young 
Alford,  whose  eyes  betrayed  unmistakably 
that  he  had  been  weeping.  Simply  bowing, 
he  passed  on  toward  the  drawing-room,  and 
\ve  proceeded  to  Marie's  chamber,  from 
which  the  old  servant  Charlotte  came  out 
as  we  entered. 

Marie  was  lying  with  her  eyes  closed,  but 
the  expression  of  her  countenance  clearly 
indicated  that  this  did  not  proceed  from 


126  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

faiutness.  It  would  be  impossible  to  imagine 
an  expression  of  more  serene  happiness.  I 
had  not  been  mistaken  in  my  calculations. 
The  great  weight  of  distress  had  been  lifted 
from  her  heart.  A  glance  at  her  face  proved 
that  she  still  labored  under  the  fever  which 
was  sapping  her  life,  but  as  plainly  happiness 
had  entered  like  a  cordial  into  her  very  being. 

At  the  noise  which  we  made  in  entering 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  toward  her 
father,  holding  out  her  arms  toward  him 
and  smiling.  He  came  and  placed  his  own 
around  her,  and  for  a  moment  no  sound  dis 
turbed  the  silence  but  low  whispers  and 
kisses ;  Marie's  face  was  burning,  but  the 
bright  smile  never  left  it. 

"Dear  old  papa!  How  good  you  are!" 
she  said ;  "  and  I  have  not  even  thanked 
you  for  your  lovely  Christmas-tree.  Light 
it,  papa." 

"Yes,  my  child,"  he  said,  going  to  the 
Christmas-tree  and  lighting  the  tapers.  The 
famous  tree  thereupon  burst  suddenly  into 
a  glory  of  light,  and  in  front  of  all  shone  the 
brilliant  golden  star. 

"  How  beautiful !"  Marie  murmured,  dream 
ily  ;  and,  half  closing  her  eyes,  she  repeated, 
in  a  tone  nearly  inaudible,  the  words : 
"  While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night—" 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  127 

The  rest  died  away  in  a  whisper.  The  girl 
was  evidently  thinking  of  the  star  shining 
over  Bethlehem  on  this  same  night,  more 
than  eighteen  hundred  years  before. 

Dr. had  taken  the  seat  at  Marie's 

side  which  her  father  had  vacated. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  you 
will  soon  be  well  now,  and  must  not  over 
tax  yourself.  Half  an  hour's  rest  will  be  of 
service  to  you,  and  I  shall  give  you  a  little 
sleeping  powder." 

The  opiate  was  administered,  and  its  ef 
fects  were  soon  apparent.  Marie  turned 
her  face  from  the  light,  her  eyes  closed,  and 
soon  her  long,  quiet  breathing  indicated 

that  she  was  falling  asleep.  Dr. then 

made  a  sign  to  Professor  Pressensee,  and  he 
silently  went  and  extinguished  the  tapers, 
the  room  remaining  lighted  only  by  a  sin 
gle  shaded  lamp. 

Dr. sat  looking  at  the  face  of  the 

sleeping  girl  with  unwavering  attention. 
His  expression  had  all  at  once  changed.  In 
speaking  to  her  he  had  adopted  the  most 
cheerful  tone,  and  his  face  was  bright  and 
smiling.  Now  I  could  see  upon  it  an  ex 
pression  of  acute  anxiety.  Extending  one 
hand,  while  he  drew  his  watch  from  his 
pocket  with  the  other,  he  touched  with  an 


128       PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

almost  imperceptible  pressure  the  wrist  of 
the  girl,  whose  arm  was  lying  ou  the  out 
side  of  the  white  counterpane,  fixing  his  eyes 
as  he  did  so  upon,  the  second-hand  of  his 
watch.  As  he  restored  the  watch  to  his 
pocket,  I  thought  I  could  see  that  his  ex 
pression  of  gloom  deepened. 

Professor  Pressensee  had  heen  standing 
erect  and  silent  in  the  middle  of  the  apart 
ment,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  child. 

He  now  came  to  Dr. 's  side,  and  said, 

in  a  low  tone, 

"Well?" 

The  doctor  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"The  pulse  is  terrible!"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  The  crisis  is  at  hand.  If  the  fever 
abates  there  is  some  hope ;  if  it  continues 
for  another  half  an  hour — " 

The  expression  of  the  speaker's  face  left 
nothing  in  doubt.  The  poor  child  was  hang 
ing  between  life  and  death.  In  thirty  min 
utes  all  would  be  decided.  Professor  Pres- 
senseo  went  and  sat  down  in  a  large  arm 
chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  From 
his  lips  issued  a  dull  murmur  —  the  father 
was  praying  for  his  child.  Except  that 
sound,  no  other  noise  disturbed  the  oppres 
sive  stillness  of  the  chamber,  where  the  min 
utes  dragged  slowly. 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.  129 

All  at  once  the  sleeping  girl  stirred,  and 
her  head,  which  had  drooped  upon  her 
shoulder,  rose.  Her  eyes,  clear  and  soft, 
were  wide  open. 

"  Papa!"  she  said,  smiling. 

Dr.  extended  his  white  handker 
chief,  and  touched  her  forehead  with  it  near 
the  roots  of  the  hair.  As  he  drew  it  back 
and  examined  it,  I  saw  his  face  fill  with  sud 
den  emotion,  and  heard  him  mutter,  "  Thank 
God!'7 

Professor  Pressensee  had  risen  quickly, 
and  now  hastened  toward  Marie,  who  held 
out  her  arms  toward  him  with  a  smile  of 
exquisite  tenderness.  His  look,  brief,  inci 
sive,  almost  fiery,  interrogated  the  face  of 
the  old  physician. 

"The  fever  has  spent  its  force,  friend," 

said  Dr. ;  "the  forehead  is  wet  with 

perspiration.     I  think  I  can  say  that  your 
daughter  is  out  of  danger  now." 
9 


130  PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 


XIV. 

IN  the  month  of  May  last  year  (1877)  I 
visited  the  region  beyond  the  Blue  Ridge 
on  business;  and,  finding  myself  in  the  vi 
cinity  of  Professor  Pressensee's  house,  avail 
ed  myself  of  the  opportunity  to  pay  him  a 
visit. 

I  reached  the  house  by  walking  from  the 
railway  station,  and,  as  I  approached  the 
familiar  grounds,  looked  with  delight  at  the 
cheerful  and  smiling  old  homestead.  The 
whole  face  of  nature  was  clothed  in  green. 
Where  the  emerald  pastures  ended,  the  deep 
foliage  of  the  forest  began ;  and  nestling 
down  beneath  its  great  oaks,  the  old  house 
seemed  to  smile  and  give  me  welcome. 

I  entered  the  tall  white  gate  and  took  my 
way  across  the  green  lawn,  which  was  brill 
iant  with  flowers.  I  was  near  the  house, 
when,  behind  a  group  of  lilacs  in  full  bloom, 
and  full  of  the  hum  of  bees,  I  saw  a  charm 
ing  group.  On  a  wicker  seat  Professor  Pres- 
sensee  was  amusing  himself  by  tossing  up 
and  down  a  rosy  little  being  in  snowy  mus- 


PKOFESSOIl  PRESSENSEE.  131 

lin,  and  within  a  few  steps  Marie  was  look 
ing  at  the  group  with  a  face  full  of  smiles ; 
her  hand  grasped  by  a  small  young  gentle 
man  just  able  to  stand  erect  on  his  feet, 
which  were  cased  in  shoes  of  blue  morocco. 

"Well,"  I  said,  suddenly  emerging  from 
behind  the  lilacs,  "this  is  really  an  inspir* 
ing  sight  to  a  passing  wayfarer !" 

Whereupon  all  was  in  commotion.  The 
professor  started  up  with  youthful  elastic 
ity  and  grasped  my  hand,  and  Marie  came 
and  put  both  her  arms  around  my  neck  and 
kissed  me.  As  her  beautiful  face  touched 
my  own,  a  voice  near  exclaimed, 

"  He  is  kissing  my  wife !" 

And  young  Alford,  with  ruddy  and  laugh 
ing  cheeks,  hastened  up  and  shook  me  heart 
ily  by  the  hand ;  after  which  came  the  turn 
of  the  two  younger  members  of  the  group, 
who  crowed  with  delight  by  way  of  adding 
to  the  general  joy. 

I  remained  with  my  friends  for  nearly  a 
week,  and  the  visit  was  charming.  I  really 
envied  Alford,  and  told  Marie  one  day  that 
I  was  almost  sorry  I  had  been  so  officious 
in  her  affairs — she  might  have  married  mej 
perhaps ;  whereat  the  pretty  face  filled  with 
laughter.  She  and  Alford  had  been  mar 
ried  in  the  spring  succeeding  her  recovery ; 


132       PROFESSOR  PRESSEXSEE. 

and  as  nothing  could  induce  her  to  leave 
her  father,  who  preferred  the  country,  the 
young  man  had  taken  up  his  abode  with 
father  and  daughter,  pursuing  with  gusto 
the  occupations  of  a  country  gentleman. 

And  Professor  Presseusee — what  had  been 
the  result  with  him,  in  body  and  mind,  it 
may  be  asked,  after  all  the  painful  scenes 
which  he  had  passed  through?  Tranquil 
lity  and  content.  I  could  see  that  plainly. 
On  his  face  was  written  an  expression  of 
profound  thankfulness.  He  was  growing 
old  in  this  quiet  and  happy  retreat,  sur 
rounded  by  all  that  he  loved  on  earth. 

His  exhausting  investigations  of  material 
science  had  been  long  discontinued,  he  said. 
He  was  inventing  a  new  plough,  he  informed 
me,  and  the  idea  of  a  superior  wheat  reaper 
was  dawning  upon  him.  Would  I  like  to 
see  the  models  ?  And  he  conducted  me  to 
his  old  den  on  the  second  floor.  It  was  no 
longer  a  den  in  any  sense.  All  was  bright 
and  cheerful ;  phonometer,  psychometer, 
and  all  connected  with  them,  had  disappear 
ed.  From  the  wall  on  one  side  the  sweet 
faces  of  his  wife  and  daughter  smiled  upon 
me.  Over  the  fireplace  the  hovering  angel 
guided  the  toiling  pilgrim  on  his  perilous 
way.  The  table  was  covered  with  journals 


PROFESSOR  PRESSENSEE.       133 

and  magazines,  in  the  midst  of  which  rose 
a  cut-glass  urn  filled  with  spring  flowers. 
And  lastly,  on  the  floor  lay  a  brilliant  toy- 
horse,  with  a  string  around  his  foreleg — un 
mistakable  indication  that  the  young  gen 
tleman  in  blue-morocco  shoes  had  recently 
bestowed  his  society  upon  his  grandpapa. 

"  This  is  better,"  I  said. 

"  The  heart  is  better  than  the  brain,"  re 
plied  the  professor,  succinctly. 

"And  here  is  the  best  of  all!"  said  the 
gay  voice  of  Marie,  behind  us — "  Baby !" 


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